


Walk Through Fire

by BelleMorte79



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Sansa Stark, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-28 20:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20972654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleMorte79/pseuds/BelleMorte79
Summary: Defiant and war-hardened, Sansa is executed for treason. But death is not always the end. She finds herself a young girl again on the eve of Robert Baratheon’s arrival in Winterfell. Has she gone mad? Or have the gods given her an unexpected gift?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a kind of experiment. If people are interested in it, I could expand it.
> 
> Additional note: 11/23/2019  
Thank you for reading. For the purposes of this fanfic the characters are aged up slightly. I have kept the age differences stable between siblings. For the purposes of all of my Game of Thrones/ ASOIAF fanfics, they are usually show-verse. You may notice that I forgo things like: missing noses, mismatched eyes etc.
> 
> Playing fast but not loose with story world.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defiant and war-hardened, Sansa is executed for treason. But death is not always the end. She finds herself a young girl again on the eve of Robert Baratheon’s arrival in Winterfell. Has she gone mad? Or have the gods given her an unexpected gift?

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air

Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”

**Walk Through Fire**

* * *

Sansa Stark knelt in the cool grass. The thin blanket of snow that had covered the ground since the end of the Great War had started to thaw. Her knees were damp, and the cool Northern wind chilled her cheeks. The ground at her feet was burned black like coal. She could still smell the smoke in the air, and still see the small fires peeking out through the mounds of charred ash and bone that lay at the feet of the huge black dragon that sat before her. Tears stung her eyes as she looked once more at the pile of blackened bones and soot, trying to pick out something familiar, or someone familiar. The air was still heavy with the smell of burning flesh. _ Jon_. _ Tyrion. Arya. _Now, it was her turn.

The rough hands of the Dothraki guards holding her seemed to tighten their grip as they approached the smoking heaps of bone and ash. They spoke to their queen from afar in deep, guttural tones, sharp enough to cut her flesh, and Sansa felt like a toy in their hands. They thrust her forward, towards the spot where the piles of ashes sat still smoking, and presented her to their Queen. Sansa took a small step forward. She breathed in, and closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer to the Stranger. She intertwined her fingers, stretching out her hands. Her hands had been tied together behind her back; she had gotten used to pressure of the ropes that bound her wrists, but her fingers felt numb and stiff. A loud snorting sound came from the direction of the ebon dragon, and Sansa suddenly looked up. The dragon’s eyes were piercing through her. They shimmered like gold in the sun.

_The sun_. Sansa wanted one last look at the sun. She wanted to see the sun, and feel it warming her face. She looked at it now, behind Daenerys shoulder, just beyond her death. She turned her face towards it, and savored the feel of it, even as it stung her eyes. She cast her eyes towards the bright blue sky over Winterfell, where she was born, and where she would die. The sky was as clear and as blue as a Robin’s egg, betraying nothing of the horrors that lay before her. She looked intently at the clouds, desperately trying to dampen the fear that chilled her through. She looked at Daenerys, studying the hard line of her jaw. She felt her stomach roiling, her feet felt heavy and clumsy, and she tried to will herself away from this place, if only in spirit. She thought of her father, and of Jon, and of Arya. She thought of her mother. She thought of the spark in Tyrion’s eyes, as he threw his Hand of the Queen pin at Daenerys’ feet in his last act of defiance. She whispered a prayer to the old gods, and hoped that they would hear her. She was far from the heart tree now. Her trial and execution were taking place just outside the gates of the castle. The Dragon Queen sat before her, glaring down at her with an air of disappointment. At one time, she had thought them friends. That had to have been a million moons ago. They had fought the war together. The dead had been beaten. _ But it wasn’t enough _ . “ _ Nothing was enough _ .” Sansa thought. Daenerys saw enemies everywhere. Jon was a threat to her. Sansa was a threat to her. Tyrion had betrayed her. She had judged them all guilty of treason. Now, here she sat, the “ _ last Targaryen”_ astride a large black dragon, dealing out death indiscriminately. She turned her glare towards Sansa looking down as she sat astride Drogon, her amethyst eyes studying the faces of the Northerners as they watched her in fear. They had gathered to watch their chosen Queen be put to death for treason.

Sansa Stark was the first and the last Queen of the North to rule in her own right. Her brother Jon had been burned to ashes right before her eyes, right outside the very gates she stood before now. Tyrion had met the same fate. 

The Dothraki guard eyed her, and whispered things to each other. One of them said something to Daenerys in a harsh tongue, and her eyes turned towards Sansa. There was a long silence before Daenerys addressed Sansa directly. “Well,” she said, “do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

Sansa laughed. She looked into Daenerys’ eyes, and she laughed, saying “I would do the same thing again. You are no queen, “ Sansa spat at the ground in front of Daenerys’ feet, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Dracarys.” She heard it like a whisper. It was fast, but the pain was excruciating. In an instant Sansa was on fire. She saw herself burning. She writhed in agony, and saw the reflection of it in the eyes of her people. She felt her skin peeling away like the rind of an orange. She heard the inhuman screams coming from her throat, as if they were coming from someone else. The pain became so overwhelming within a few moments that Sansa no longer felt anything. Soon, there was nothing to feel, only darkness.

She thrashed and wailed. _ She was burning. _

“Sansa!” 

_ She heard a voice. _ It was a woman’s voice. 

She heard a steady drumbeat of footsteps approaching her door. She heard herself screaming out into the dark of her room.

Her mother grabbed her by the shoulders. “You’re having a nightmare.”

Sansa’s body couldn’t stop shaking. She was glued to her bedclothes, and soaked in sweat. She wiped her forehead with the arm of her chemise, and her chemise smelled like smoke. 


	2. Dark Wings, Dark Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa comes to terms with the aftermath of her past actions, and ponders the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on plotting and outlining. Working on this story as my NaNoWriMo project. Comments are welcome.

_ I turn and burn. _

_ Do not think I underestimate your great concern. _

_ Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” _

* * *

** Dark Wings, Dark Words **

Sansa 

“Your sister is very sick,” Sansa heard her mother’s voice saying repeatedly. Sometimes, she thought that she could hear Arya’s voice among the backdrop of chatter in the hallway outside her door. She watched the shadows dancing against the walls in her room as the fire burned in the hearth, and the flames flickered in the darkness, casting strange shapes against the grey stone walls and lulling her in and out of a restless sleep.

She hated to sleep, but her body was always tired. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the amethyst eyes of the Dragon Queen, staring down at her in disappointment. When she allowed herself to drift off to sleep, she saw her brother, Jon, being burnt to death by dragon fire. Even in her waking hours, she would find her mind drifting back to the last time that she saw Tyrion. His eyes were full of hurt, and she watched the small metal pin he threw clank down the stone stairs as he marched towards his death. She could not erase the hurt in each of their eyes as they went to their deaths, knowing that there was nothing that any of them could do to save her--knowing that they had all failed. She saw Arya, lunging towards the Dragon Queen with a dagger in her hand, her body beaten and bloodied. She would relive this moment repeatedly--the sight of her sister’s tiny body being struck down with arrows, and run down by the Dothraki on their horses. She felt a shiver in her spine as she heard their blood curdling screams of war and the steady drumbeat of hooves in her dreams. She watched as Arya was dragged through the open field by horses, with a rope binding her feet, and as she limped, battered and bruised towards the rock where she would burn to death. Sansa woke up screaming every morning. She woke up feeling like a prisoner in the softness of her featherbed. She woke up screaming and squirming as the sweat pooled at the center of her back. Every time that she woke, she fought. She fought, reflexively, with anyone who stood before her. She fought with the hands and arms that moved towards her to comfort her, to soothe her. 

Many mornings there was a shadow standing before her, and it talked, moved, sounded and felt, like her mother. _ But her mother was dead _

So, Sansa fought. She screamed. She kicked. She wailed. 

“Maester Luwin!” She heard the shadow say. She heard it fussing and cooing as it moved through the halls of Winterfell. _ A shadow---a creature--- _ with her mother’s face--a _ shadow _ with her mother’s voice. 

It lurched towards her. It fussed over her. She closed herself up like a clamshell. “_ No one would ever hurt her again _,” she thought to herself. When she opened her eyes for the first time to see her mother’s face hovering above her own, she had let out a shriek that caused her maidservant to fall backwards, dropping the platter of food that she carried with a loud clang. 

The figure of her mother stood above her bed, with her mother’s face, and with its lips pursed, gently wiping the sweat from Sansa’s brow with a cool cloth that smelled like herbs. 

_ Maester Luwin. It had said. It had shrieked into the darkness, and a chorus of footsteps followed. _

_ “Maester Luwin is dead,” _she had heard herself say, as the figure sat near her bed. The ghost with her mother’s face almost dropped the bowl from her lap and onto the floor.

“Sansa!” It said, with eyes wide. It called out into the halls for Maester Luwin, as if life itself depended on it. Maester Luwin came into Sansa’s room, and he fussed over her, pulling out potions and tinctures. Sansa felt so weak and tired that she could do nothing more than lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the voices of the shadows as they discussed her. Shadows that looked like her mother, her father and Maester Luwin discussed her as if she wasn’t there. 

Sansa had forgotten what it was like to be a child. You were at the whim of your parents and other adults. She didn’t believe that they were real, but she felt comforted by her mother and father’s voices. She was especially glad to see her father’s face. She took in every inch of it, studying him, watching him. She had told him that she hated him before he had died. She had said, ignorantly, that she would never feel differently. She had been a silly, spoiled little fool. 

“_ This could not be real _,” she thought to herself. She had missed her mother and father so much. Maester Luwin didn’t seem to know what was wrong with her, and neither did she. He had taken to plying her with dreamwine. When she saw him, she knew that soon she would drift off to sleep, and she hoped upon hope that it would be dreamless. 

When she awoke, she would awaken to Lady Catelyn’s face writ large with concern, with her soft, cool hands pressed to Sansa’s forehead. Sansa lay in bed most days and the servants brought her food. She took her meals in her room, speaking to no one, not even to Jeyne Poole, _ or the creature that looked like Jeyne Poole _. She would listen to the voices in the halls outside her bedchamber. The sound of her mother’s voice echoed throughout the corridors of Winterfell, cutting through the quiet hallways as sharp as dragonglass. 

Sansa looked around her room, and it looked just as she remembered it as a child. She saw the porcelain dolls that she had played with, and fussed over. They were shoved into a corner now. She was too old for dolls. The last time that she had been in this room, and in this bed, she had dreamt of marriage. She had wanted to be Queen. She had dreamt of handsome princes, and balls and tourneys, and the majesty of the Southron court. She had been a fool. She was a fool. _ She is a fool _.

Her mother, the ghost, the shadow---her mother---sat now on the corner of the bed. The fire burned and crackled in the hearth, casting shadows and light in her auburn hair as she watched Sansa with all the fierceness of a mother wolf tending her pup. _ It felt real. _

“I must go and check on Bran and Arya. Maester Luwin will tend to you while I am way. Try to rest.” her mother’s mouth said gently, and Sansa watched as her mother’s hands doused the cloth again with the cool liquid in the bowl on her lap, and with pursed lips, gently wiped Sansa’s face. 

Sansa stared into her mother’s eyes, seeing the concern, and worry. She felt dizzy as she stared into those eyes, the eyes so like hers, and watched, as they turned as dark and as ominous as the sky before a storm. Catelyn’s face stared down at Sansa, with brows knitted tightly in concern, continuing to douse the cloth that she grasped tightly in her hands, plunging it into the acrid liquid that sat in the bowl, and humming to herself. When she was satisfied that she had done all that she could do, she stood up, putting the bowl on a small table near Sansa’s bed, gathered her skirts, and disappeared into the hallway.

In the hallway, Sansa could hear the servants talking. “The king rides to Winterfell.” She heard them say in hushed tones. 

King Robert was riding for Winterfell. Sansa lay in bed weak, and tired. Her skin felt raw, as if she had been bruised. Maester Luwin came and went, and could find nothing wrong with her. 

“_ Everything that is wrong with me is hidden, beneath my skin _,” Sansa thought to herself. She lay abed, staring at the ceiling. She knew that no one would ever believe her if she told them what was wrong with her. What expression would she find on her mother’s face if she told her that she was dead? What would her mother think if she confessed that she had died screaming in a gout of dragon fire? What would her father’s countenance be like if she told him that she had been burned that she had been executed--for treason, and that he had been beheaded for the same? As the dragon flames consumed her, the last thing that Sansa said was a prayer. She had prayed to the gods, Old and New. 

“_ Maybe they had answered her prayers. Maybe they had heard. Maybe that was why she was back at Winterfell?” _She thought.

The king, Robert Baratheon rode for Winterfell, and Sansa knew that this was where the nightmare had begun the first time. From all of the hushed conversations that she had overheard, it seemed that he would be there in a fortnight. Sansa knew what this meant. Cersei Lannister would try to dig her claws into her. Sansa was no longer a silly child who would be blinded by her beauty and false courtesy. Joffrey would do his duty and court her, but she knew the truth of him now. She knew that he was a monster. Tyrion Lannister would ride with them. Her heart ached slightly to think that she might see him again, and that he no longer knew her. She had come to be fond of him, and to appreciate the kindness that he had shown to her as a girl, despite his awful family. After her marriage to Ramsay Bolton, she had appreciated the kindnesses even more, especially the awkwardness of their wedding night.

Perhaps there was something that she could do and something that she could change. Sansa pondered the opportunity to save her father from the death that awaited him, and by doing so to change the course of her history. But, was it possible? Soon, Daenerys Targaryen would wed a horse lord, and receive three dragon eggs as a wedding gift. The eggs would be nothing more than stone orbs, crystalline and beautiful now, but soon Daenerys would endure her own sacrifice and would give them life. Soon they would hatch. Soon, fire, death, and magic would be loosed upon the world, and she felt powerless to stop it alone. _ Maybe she didn’t have to. _

“Mother,” she called out into the hallway. Her maidservant peeked her head into the room, propping the door ajar with her foot as she balanced a tray on her hip. 

“Your mother is in the courtyard m’lady,” the maid, Brenna said, looking at Sansa with gentle consideration. “I’ll fetch her m’lady.”

“Thank you Brenna,” Sansa said. She pulled herself upright, and looked, for the first time in a long time, at her own reflection in the mirror. Her eyes still remained as they had always been. She felt that she still had the eyes of a woman grown, but her face, her face was the face of a girl. She lifted her chemise, and examined her body. Her skin was smooth and pale. The scars that Ramsay Bolton had carved into her flesh were gone. 

Her mother rushed into the room. 

“Sansa! What are you doing out of bed?” 

Sansa felt herself crashing her body into her mother’s then. She grabbed her, and held her, and pressed her face into her chest. 

Catelyn smoothed Sansa’s hair.

Sansa breathed in her mother’s scent, she smelled of chamomile and sandalwood and jasmine. Sansa buried her face in her mother’s hair, reveling in the feel of it.

“What’s gotten into you Sansa?” She heard her mother say gently, but she seemed pleased to feel the embrace. Sansa could feel some of the tension leaving her mother’s body as she inhaled deeply and squeezed her back.


	3. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Royal family visits Winterfell. Sansa comes face to face with the past.

_ Ash, ash— _

_ You poke and stir. _

_ Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— _

_ Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” _

* * *

**The Stranger**

The Royal Visit 

The Baratheon host made it to Winterfell in a little over a fortnight. They arrived on a bright, cold morning in a huge wheelhouse decorated with ornate carvings of lions and stags carved out of rich oiled oak, and framed with gilded antlers that shimmered like gold in the sun. There were hundreds in the party, and the caravan sat outside the gates of Winterfell due to the impressive size of the wheelhouse. With a party, so large Sansa wondered how her mother and father were to feed them all. The Queen, Cersei Lannister, and her smaller children, Tommen and Myrcella, had to enter Winterfell on foot. She glided past the onlookers that had ventured from the Wintertown to see the King and Queen’s arrival like a beautiful apparition. She bestowed the populace with glittering smiles that never reached her eyes. As Sansa watched her smile, and curtsy, she remembered with embarrassment how enamored she had been with the Queen, and with her genteel manners and exquisite beauty. 

Lady Catelyn made all of the boys shave and get haircuts despite their protestations. She needed no such enticement with Sansa. Sansa always took great care with her appearance. She dressed herself for the occasion in a pale blue gown that accentuated her deep blue eyes. Her heart beat fast in her chest as she caught sight of Prince Joffrey riding through the gates on a chestnut stallion draped in the Lannister colors. At one time she had thought him handsome. As she watched him now, she felt relieved to be released from whatever spell she had been under. As he passed where she stood with her family all in a line, he bent down his head to her in courtesy and her stomach twisted itself into a knot.

She flashed him a smile. “_ The Lannisters are a proud family _ ,” she thought to herself. Joffrey Baratheon, was dressed in Lannister crimson and gold from head to foot. Sansa straightened her spine, and smiled as prettily as she could as he passed her. As she turned to look at the crowds behind him, she caught him staring at her with interest. It did not go unnoticed. Robb stood next to her in the courtyard, flanked on his right by Theon Greyjoy, her father’s ward, and they seemed less than impressed with their prince, or his attentions to Sansa. Robb’s mouth was a tight line as he watched him trot away on his fine stallion. Bran and Rickon stood next to each other. Rickon looked like the baby that he was, taking in all of the pomp and ceremony with great interest. Bran watched the Knights, admiring their armor and grandeur as they made their procession through the gates. Sansa noticed Bran beaming as he watched Jaime Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, remove his golden lion helm. He rode in on a white horse, and Sansa thought that he looked every inch the handsome prince from the stories that she had read as a girl. She continued to scan the faces in the crowd for Arya. _ Arya was missing _. She looked around the courtyard for some sign of her. Arya had disappeared off somewhere earlier in the day. The bottoms of her skirts were sure to be caked in dirt. She hoped that she was steering clear of the royal party, at least for the moment. She didn’t have the fear that she used to have, of being embarrassed by her sister, but she feared for her safety. 

Her parents were occupied with the King and Queen, and Sansa did not envy them. Her father had been charged with taking Robert Baratheon to the crypts, to see her Aunt Lyanna’s tomb. Her aunt Lyanna’s name on King Robert’s lips seemed to be a point of contention for the queen. She bid the King to let his visitation to the crypts wait until they had been refreshed and rested. He would not listen to her. Sansa read the discomfort in her voice and manner. Without the haze of being lovesick for the boy prince, everything that she saw stood out in stark relief. Her mother was occupied with Queen Cersei, and her smaller children. The older boys, Robb & Theon were cautiously observing the Prince and his guard. Jon was hiding, somewhere, and of course, her mother was being awful to Jon. She had never noticed just how awful her mother treated Jon. She had taken her mother’s treatment of Jon as a model for how _ she _ should treat him. It pained her now to think of how she had sneeringly called him her _ half _brother. As she watched the closeness among her trueborn siblings, now it was all that she could notice. She watched the way Jon sulked in the shadows, always just out of sight, as they prepared for the royal visit. Now that the royal party had arrived, he was all but invisible. Her mother had loudly protested to their father that Jon was to stay out of sight. Jon was not allowed in the courtyard. Her lady mother had made this explicitly clear, she said that she “did not want his presence to insult the Queen.” 

Sansa stood in a line with her siblings as their Lord father escorted King Robert towards the crypts, and her Lady mother escorted the Queen, Myrcella, and Tommen past her and into the Great Keep to prepare for a feast. Sansa had almost forgotten how beautiful Cersei was until she watched the lioness of Lannister survey the grounds at Winterfell. She was tall, and graceful, with delicate limbs. She wore a rich fur cloak over a silk gown of Lannister crimson. Her long golden hair hung in ringlets that fell past her shoulders, and nestled upon her head was a sparkling jeweled crown accented with emeralds the color of her eyes. 

Sansa watched as she made her way into the castle. Soon she would be followed by her brother, the kingslayer, Jaime Lannister. As she watched them enter into the Great Keep she heard a voice break through her silent meditation. It was whispering something. It was her sister.

“Where’s the imp?” Arya said. 

“Arya,” Sansa sighed, her sister was wearing a helmet on her head, pilfered from some soldier’s armor. “Come here,” Sansa beckoned her towards where she was standing. 

Where Sansa was tall, and light, Arya was small, and dark. Where Sansa was slender and graceful and deliberate, her sister was scrawny, and wiry and impetuous. She was wearing a dress the same color as Sansa’s but the ties had come loose and she hadn’t bothered to fix them. Her brown hair was pulled back away from her face and braided in plaits that were unravelling leaving small wisps of hair to frame her long face. Her cheeks were pink from activity.

Sansa bent down to whisper into her sister’s ear, “He doesn’t like to be called that.”

“How do you know?” Arya shot back. 

Sansa had no answer. “_ How do I know?” _ She thought to herself. She said simply, “It’s not polite, “ she calmly, smoothed her skirts, as her sister stared at her with big brown questioning eyes. 

“Why are you being so nice?” Arya said, narrowing her eyes as they focused in on Sansa’s face. 

“Aren’t I always nice?” She replied. Even as the words left Sansa’s lips, she braced herself for the answer. 

“No,” Arya said flatly, looking up at her. “You’re strange. You’ve been...acting strange ever since you fell ill.”

“I’ve just realized what is important. That’s all.” Her sister’s face was unreadable, as she was unsure what to make of this answer. 

“Are you dying?” Arya asked as they continued walking. 

Sansa placed her hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Dying? Arya,” she began, changing the subject entirely, “Where were you when the King and Queen arrived?”

“I was playing with the butcher’s boy, Mycah,” she said. “Are you going to tell mother and father?”

“Why would I do that?” Sansa replied, as they walked towards the castle. 

“I know It’s not what a _ highborn lady _ would do. Are you going to tell...Don’t tell Septa Mordane…” She stopped now and stood staring into Sansa’s eyes. 

“I’m not going to tell anyone. But...Arya...” Sansa bent down, and looked into her sister’s eyes earnestly, “promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will,” she said, but Sansa was sure that it was only to end the conversation. As they approached the kennels, Arya called out for her wolf, Nymeria.

“Nymeria!” She shouted. 

The wolf pup came bounding towards her, and she bent down to scratch her behind the ears and to pet her playfully on the head. Sansa’s pup, Lady, was in the kennels too. But she did not call out to her. Sansa was doing her best to keep Lady out of trouble. She found it hard to look at Lady. It made her sad. In her first life, _ Lady was dead. _ Lady had been dead before they had ever reached King’s Landing. Lady took the punishment for Nymeria’s crime of biting Joffrey. She was sweet, and trusting, and good, much like Sansa herself had been. Sansa had been so enamored with Joffrey and with the idea of being Queen that she had failed to defend her own sister, and her wolf had paid the price. With a pang of guilt Sansa thought, “ _ This time will be different. _”

It felt important to her that nothing happened to Lady or Nymeria. It felt important that their wolves remained with them, and close to them. Sansa had been finally deemed strong enough to leave her room and she intended to use her time wisely. As she walked towards the castle she saw a raven flying overhead. She could hear Old Nan’s voice echoing inside her head,“_ Dark wings, dark words _.” Old Nan would say this, and Sansa used to think it was superstition. Now the words echoed in Sansa’s head. Now that the King was in Winterfell, everything was about to change. She thought, as she walked along the courtyard, that her Aunt Lysa had probably sent the scroll accusing the Lannister’s of murder, and she was holed up in the Eyrie, becoming crazier by the day. Sansa had been merely a child, and she was unaware what plans were in motion. Sansa wondered if Varys had little birds at Winterfell even now, or if Littlefinger had spies stationed inside their keep. She felt uneasy around all of the strangers that the royal visit brought with it. She watched the faces of the people that she passed carefully. The corridors were filled with people whose faces she did not know, which made her even more wary. She made her way to her room and closed the door behind her. 

As she sat on the plump stool in her room, she stared into the bronzed mirror before her. She began to take down her hair, carefully removing the pins that held her braids in place. She could hear footsteps approaching her door. 

“Sansa,” her mother’s voice came through the crack in the door. She watched her reflection in the mirror as her mother approached her from behind and began smoothing her hair. 

“Mother,” Sansa said, her voice soft. 

“The Prince took great interest in you. King Robert has suggested a betrothal,” She began to help Sansa take down her hair, removing pins, and unraveling the long braids that went down her back.

“But what if I don’t want to.” Sansa said. 

“Your father hasn’t agreed to it yet,” her mother said, weighing her words carefully. “Your father says you’re still too young.” She felt her mother’s chest as she took a deep breath then, and it almost felt like she was shivering. She sighed, “What do you think of the Prince?” 

Her mother was now looking at her with great interest. “I don’t know,” Sansa said, “We’ve only exchanged smiles in the courtyard.” 

Sansa felt sick at the idea of being in the same room with Joffrey. She knew what he was. She knew that she hated him. She knew that she wasn’t supposed to know. Her mother seemed to want to ask her something else, but she did not. 

“It’s the great wish of the King to join our houses,” her mother said finally, before adding “the King needs to be sure of our devotion to the crown. It may be hard for your father to refuse.”

“I know,” was Sansa’s only reply.

Even before the words left her mother’s lips, Sansa already knew that she was bound for King’s Landing. She would be walking into the lion’s den again, but this time she would have her eyes open. 

The Kiss of the Stranger 

The evening after the conversation with her mother, the family feasted the Baratheon party in the Great Hall. The great hall was bathed in yellow candlelight. There was a great roaring fire in the hearth and the air was alive with the clamor of plates and cutlery. There were lively and animated conversations happening in every corner of the hall. The King was boisterous and loud, and grew louder the more he drank. He was red faced, and held a goblet of wine in his outstretched hand, as he gestured towards a comely young woman with the other. The sturdy wooden tables were full of soldiers and lords who had come to pay their respects to the King. The king himself was seated far away from the queen, and as Sansa watched him now, the woman that he had beckoned, freckled, red headed, busty and plump, sat on his lap, laughing in a high girlish way. He buried his face in her bosom as he laughed and drank, and everything that he did, he did loudly. Sansa found him to be embarrassing, coarse, and disrespectful, especially to his lady wife. Out of the corners of her eyes Sansa watched with interest as Cersei’s rage grew, flickering in her eyes like a flame. Her lady mother tried, to no avail, to make small talk with her, but Sansa could see that she paid no attention. She was beckoning Sansa over to her now.

Jeyne Poole tittered next to her with great excitement. “Sansa,” she hissed excitedly, “the queen is calling to you.” And she motioned towards the high table. 

Sansa rose from the bench, walked through the collection of people who stood idly around, drinking ale, and made her way to the table to stand in front of her mother, and the queen. The queen smiled at her but she saw something else behind the smile--a question.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” She cooed. 

Sansa curtsied. “Thank you, your Grace.” Sansa watched her mother’s face as she beamed with pride, but she couldn’t read what she might have been thinking. 

“How old are you little dove?” The queen said, smiling.

“Fourteen, your Grace.” Sansa replied with a curtsy. 

“Your dress, did you make it?” The queen’s eyes surveyed Sansa’s dress, before coming to rest on Sansa’s face expectantly.

“Yes, your grace.”

“It’s beautiful. You must make something for me someday.” She said.

Sansa curtsied again. She nodded towards her lady mother. She hoped that she was doing a good job of acting pleased with the queen’s attentions. The prince, Joffrey, watched her from a table off to the right of them, as Sansa spoke with his mother, and she wondered what he was thinking.

As Sansa walked away, the queen turned to Lady Catelyn, and she could hear her say, “She will do well in the South.” 

Sansa wanted to laugh. She had once thought so too. She had dreamt of being anywhere but Winterfell. Winterfell was dull, and drab, and she wanted to be in the center of everything. She wanted to be in a city, and among the beautiful ladies of the court and by courted by gallant knights. “_ A silly fool _ , _ I was _” she thought to herself now. She made her way back over to where her friends sat, Jeyne Poole, and Beth Cassel. They were talking animatedly about the Knights, particularly Jaime Lannister. Everywhere he went, women and girls fawned over him. But he had eyes only for Cersei, Sansa thought to herself. 

At the far end of the table, away from his sister, she saw Tyrion, and he was deep in his cups. She wondered how so small a person could possibly drink so much wine. He got up from the table after a while, and she watched as he made his way from the hall. She wanted to follow him. She wanted to. But she didn’t know why. Their relationship in King’s Landing had been less than ideal. He had, she saw with hindsight, tried to protect her from some of the things that his family did. _ But they were still his family. He was complicit. _ She wondered to herself, what she would have done,if their roles had been reversed? The thoughts kept repeating in her head, “ _ What would I do for my own family? What am I about to do for them? _” 

She walked out of the great hall, and into the corridor, deep in thought. “Robb needs not to go to war. He needed to stay at Winterfell,” she thought, and she kept playing out different scenarios in her head that could make that so. There was only one way, she imagined finally, she had to keep her father from losing his head. “But how,” she wondered. She began to walk towards the entryway, and soon found herself in the Winterfell courtyard. 

The courtyard at night was peaceful. There were few people milling about. You could hear the sounds of the horses in the stable, and the occasional squawks of chickens, and ducks. Across the courtyard in the kennels, you could hear the sound of wolves howling. Sansa heard a wolf howl now, and she turned her head in the direction of the sound. She saw torchlight in the library tower. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in the library, preferring to spend her time sewing or working on her needlework. She wondered if there might be a book that she could read to ease her thoughts, or maybe something that would give her insight into her current situation.

Sansa approached the library, her head bent down, watching her careful steps in the light scattering of snow that covered the ground. The light was waning now over the castle walls, and the dying sun cast the leaves of the trees in an otherworldly light. As she looked up towards the tall library tower, she noticed shadows in the library tower. “_ At least I will not be alone in the library _,” she thought as she wrapped her cloak tightly around her middle and made her way to the tower itself. Sansa climbed up the winding stone stairs and stepped into the golden glow of torch light that lit the library. As she expected, she was not alone. However, a person that she did not expect to see sat at a small table before her, deeply engrossed in a leatherbound book. .

_ Tyrion Lannister. _ The last time she had been face to face with Tyrion he was screaming in agony. The last time that she saw Tyrion, he was burning. She had spent time with him in Winterfell. She had been guarded, but he had been kind. He had let himself grow a thick, wiry beard, and his head had been a mass of golden curls. It was the best he had ever looked. _ The face that she saw before her now, looked like a child in comparison. _ She didn’t ever remember him being this young. She imagined him the way that he had been the last time that she had seen him. She had appreciated him then. He was able to be witty in even the most dire situation. _ He was gone. She should be too. But she was here. _ She had done her best not to meddle in the things that she knew that she shouldn’t change. “ _ Jon had to go to the wall. Bran has to fall from the tower.” _ She told herself. _ I have go to King’s Landing _ . She had been very occupied by her betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon the last time that Jon was set to go to the wall. _ The wall. _ She remembered that Jon told her that Tyrion accompanied him up on the trip to the wall. She didn’t even remember that Tyrion went North with Jon. She had barely noted his absence. _ She was staring at him. _She realized. She had been so lost in thought that she was unaware that her eyes had never left his face. 

It did not escape his notice, however.

“My lady,” he said, and he rose from his chair, gallantly. As he rose to his feet she could smell the sickly sweet smell of wine on his breath. His face was flushed and his green eyes were dazed and slightly watery. 

“Lord Tyrion,” she said, and her voice sounded high and strange to her ears. 

Something about her response made him uneasy. She could sense his unease. She decided to say something to ease his discomfort. 

“I hear that you are going to the wall, my lord,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. Her eyes surveyed the room, and she saw in one corner of her eye Maester Luwin. He was holding a thick volume in two arms, and watching her with a sidelong glance. He seemed to do that a lot, since she was no longer abed. She felt as if he were always waiting for her to fall to pieces. 

“You’ve heard correctly,” he said, some of the tension seeming to leave his body. Sansa observed that he straightened his spine, before looking her squarely in her eyes. He was sitting with a thick leather bound book on the _ Tales of the Northmen _. The Septon, Chayle, sat nodding off in the corner of the library his oil lamp beginning to flicker out. He smiled. 

“What are you studying so intently?” She was curious. But she wondered if she was being too forward, because he seemed taken aback. 

“Are you interested in the histories, my lady?”

A blush rose to her cheeks. 

“Merely curious, my lord,” she said, her ears warming. “I’ll leave you to it.” As she made her way towards a row of fine leather bound books, she vowed that she would be more careful of her tongue in the future. She didn’t trust herself to talk to Tyrion, not now. Not yet. She saw a book that caught her attention, “_ The Kiss of the Stranger _ .” She pulled it from the shelf, feeling the weight of it in her arms. She had prayed to the Stranger as she felt herself burn. People rarely prayed to the Stranger. She knew this. “ _ Maybe the Stranger has granted me mercy,” _she thought as she walked down the rows of books, and towards the arched doorway.

She felt eyes watching her as she carried the heavy tome in her arms, and made her way towards the winding stone staircase. She didn’t know if the eyes were those of Maester Luwin, or the eyes of Tyrion Lannister. She felt that she had given both of them a strange impression, and she wasn’t sure why she felt that way. So, she pushed it out of her mind, and she made her way back to her room with the heavy book pressed tightly to her chest, and her mind clouded with thoughts of a past that seemed to slip further away each day.


	4. She Stands Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa prepares for the Journey south. Bran has a date with fate.

###  **She Stands Apart**

I have done it again. 

One year in every ten 

I manage it——

_ Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”_

* * *

Sansa 

Sansa stared at the grey stone walls of her room deep in thought. She had always wanted to escape these walls when she had been a young girl the first time. She would have done anything to get out. Sansa felt ungrateful, and she wondered to herself if it seemed that she was never happy. She did get out out of Winterfell, eventually, and then she became a prisoner. When she was trapped in King’s Landing, she would have given anything to be within the walls of Winterfell again. She would have given anything to be home. _ Home _. She was born in this castle. She died in this castle, and somehow, she was back. 

Sansa stared at the book that she had taken from the Winterfell library. Her room was bathed in the golden glow of candlelight. She pulled her chair close to the fire in the hearth, feeling the warmth against her face. She held the book in her hands, feeling the weight of it. 

She opened it, and started reading the first page that caught her attention. 

_ The stranger does not tremble before armies or glory. _

_ She lays her icy hands upon Kings & Queens _

_ All are made equal before her. _

_ The stranger alone among the gods holds no love for gifts. _

_ The people sing no hymns for her. _

_ She hears none. _

_ Persuasion falls on her ears like rain falls on an ocean. _

_ When she walks with you-- _

_ You walk alone. _

_ No sacrifice or altar bares her face. _

_ She stands apart. _

_ Shrouded. _

_ Stealing hours as they pass. _

_ To meet the shadow, you must walk through fire. _

This was not a part of the Seven Pointed Star, Sansa thought to herself. It made no sense. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. “_ You must walk through fire,” _she repeated the last line again in her mind. 

She felt a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach. Sighing, she put the heavy book down on the table that faced her bed, and began to ready herself for sleep. She was exhausted from the events of the day. She had spent her time avoiding the queen’s scrutiny, keeping the prince at a distance, and being on guard for the things that she knew were to come. When she slipped into bed, she finally felt her body relax. She watched the firelight cast dancing shadows against the walls of her room, and her eyelids began to feel heavy. 

> _ Sansa walked through the forest, feeling the breeze through the trees, and she felt as if she could hear the voices of the gods,. The godswood was old and ancient. The heart tree stood deep at its center. The heart tree was tall and thick, and it wore a face. A long and solemn face carved into the ashen white bark, with dried sap the color of blood set deep within the eyes and mouth. It was staring at her. Her feet were soundless against the mossy ground and she yearned to reach out and touch the heart tree. _
> 
> _ She looked towards the still black pool of water that sat beneath the ancient tree. Her father would often sit there. She needed to sit too. She was tired. She was scared. She didn’t know what to do. As she walked towards the rock formation, a voice called out to her across the wind. _
> 
> _ “Sansa,” she heard it whisper. _
> 
> _ “Show yourself,” she shouted into the darkness. _
> 
> _ The only response was silence. Sansa was alone. She turned behind to see if someone had followed her into the godswood. But there was no one. _
> 
> _ “Sansa,” she heard the voice whisper into the wind. _
> 
> _ “It was just the wind,”she thought to herself. Just the wind. She repeated. She reached the center of the godswood. Her eyes traced the carvings in the tree, the face looked like Bran. She reached out her hand and touched it. _
> 
> _ “Bran has gone North of the wall,” she reminded herself. _
> 
> _ Rain fell in the Godswood. The ground was covered in bright green patches of moss. The moss covered rock formations jutted out in Sansa’s line of sight. Here, her eyes traced the outline of the weirwood that stood with outstretched limbs, beckoning her. This was a beautiful place. Sansa thought, as she looked up at the huge white tree, its bright red leaves in stark contrast against the backdrop of a grey sky. She found herself drawn to the pool of water that sat before the weirwood. Her body pulled her towards the spot where the trunk was thick and knotty, and the leaves collected around it like drops of blood. Everything, even the air felt damp. Sansa wore slippers on her feet, but the dewy grass made it feel like she was barefoot. The closer she got to the heart tree, the more the soft, mossy ground sank beneath her feet. Sansa walked towards the pool of deep, dark water that lay at the center of the wood, and towards the huge, ancient tree. She looked at the face that was carved there. It looked like her brother. _
> 
> _ Bran. _
> 
> _ She walked towards the tree, feeling the damp of the cool moss beneath her feet through her slippers, and she began to feel the chill deep in her body. _
> 
> _ The tree. _
> 
> _ It called to her. _
> 
> _ The tree was speaking to her. _
> 
> _ “Sansa.” She heard it say. _
> 
> _ “Trees can’t talk.” She repeated to herself. _
> 
> _ The red sap from the tree oozed from the roughly carved eyes,and mouth like honey from a honeycomb, thick and viscous. She reached out her hand to touch it. The sap clung to her fingers, and as she looked into the face, she heard the voice again. _
> 
> _ “Robb. Sansa. You must talk to Robb.” _
> 
> _ She closed her eyes. _
> 
> _ A dragon flew overhead. It was silver, pearlescent and had eyes like amethysts. She looked into the eyes, it opened its mouth wide, and an orange stream of fire engulfed her. _

_ She screamed. _

“Sansa!” Her maid, Brenna, knocked on the door insistently. 

The morning light streamed in through the windows. Sansa climbed out of bed, slipping her feet into a cozy pair of slippers. She padded softly over to the door, opening it just slightly ajar, to peek out at her visitor.

“Yes, Brenna.” She said. 

Brenna’s eyes were wide with concern. “You’ve been missed at breakfast, m’lady. It’s time for your lessons. Septa Mordane asked after you. She seemed cross.”

Sansa resisted the urge to sigh in exasperation, saying as cheerfully as she could manage, “I need you to help me dress.” 

Sansa picked out a grey velvet dress for the day. She ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp slightly as she thought about the day ahead. Sansa was struggling over what to do about her father. Should she approach him, she wondered, and tell him the truth? He wasn’t one to believe in grumkins and snarks. He wasn’t likely to believe her. If Eddard Stark was anything, he was practical, and not prone to flights of fancy. She could try to influence him. She could try to make sure that he put less stock in anything that Littlefinger or Varys said to him once they reached the capital. 

Brenna braided Sansa’s hair into a thick braid. She wrapped the braid around its base, to create a coiled bun atop Sansa’s head. Sansa watched in the mirror as Brenna held the pins in her mouth as she pinned the bun securely into place. The pain was a slight distraction from her thoughts. Once she was dressed, and her hair was was done, she thanked Brenna, took a final look at herself in the mirror, and walked out into the hallway.

Her father was walking towards her. 

“Good morning Sansa,” he said. “Are you well?” 

“I’m good, good.” She supplied, before asking, “I hear that they have sent an honor guard to accompany us on our journey.”

“You’ve heard right, I’ve been meaning to talk to you Sansa, about this betrothal,” he said squinting, as if in pain. Her father, Sansa realized now, did not like Joffrey. In that, he was perceptive, she mused.

“Yes.” She waited for him to say more. 

“How do you feel about being separated from your mother?” He asked.

“I will do my duty,” Sansa said, and he watched her then, as if looking for something else in her words. 

“What do you think of the prince?” He asked.

“He’s very gallant. He is--handsome.” She replied.

“Do you think that you’ll be happy in the capital?” He asked.

_ No. _She wanted to say. She knew that she wouldn’t be. “I’m not sure, father. I don’t know what to expect.” 

“That’s an honest answer,” he said, and he patted her on the head. 

He had his hair pulled back, and he wore a brown leather jerkin. It looked soft from wear. His morning was probably full, Sansa thought, and she saw Maester Luwin rushing towards them. When he reached them in the hall, he nodded to Sansa.

“Lady Sansa.” He said, and turned to her Lord father, before spiriting him away down the hallway.

Sansa walked purposefully to the Great Hall, where they had been having their meals while the royal party was at Winterfell. Most everyone else had already taken breakfast. There were still a few people milling about. Sansa got the attention of one of the girls from the kitchen. She asked what was left to eat. Before long the serving girl brought her out a bowl of porridge topped with stewed apples and raisins. The porridge made her feel warm inside. She scanned the hall for familiar faces. Her friends Jeyne and Beth were taking their lessons with Septa Mordane, most likely, and soon, she would do the same.

* * *

Bran 

Bran couldn’t figure out a name for his direwolf. Everyone else had named theirs. Even Rickon had started to call his Shaggydog. Bran thought that was a stupid name. But Rickon was a baby. Everyone was busy getting ready for their trip South. Bran couldn’t wait. 

Bran walked along the grounds at Winterfell with his wolf underfoot. He ran across the godswood, and he felt as if the eyes of the trees watched him. They made him feel uneasy. Bran hated the eyes. They seemed to always be watching him. He thought the leaves looked like bloody hands. His wolf kept up with him. When he reached the wall of the armory, he turned around to look at his wolf, looking closely at her face, staring into her eyes. 

“Stay here girl.” He said sternly. The wolf looked at him questioningly. 

Bran looked up at the tower above. He looked at the bricks jutting out at the base of the tower and he had the urge to climb. 

He started to climb. He loved to climb. 

His wolf started growling, and crying. 

“Be quiet girl,” he said. 

She whimpered. 

His lady mother had often told him, with a laugh, that he had climbed before he could even walk. She didn’t like him to climb. But he never fell. 

His lady mother had tried to get him to stop. Even Maester Luwin had tried to get him to stop. He had made a clay boy and dressed it in Bran’s clothes, and threw it from the tower. It had shattered to pieces. Maester Luwin had told him that the same could happen to him. Bran had insisted that it wouldn’t happen to him, because he never fell. So Bran kept climbing. He climbed up the armory now, reaching towards the rooftops. 

Winterfell was full of towers and walls and tunnels and Bran knew every inch of them. When he reached the top of the tower, all of Winterfell spread out before him. The people below barely took notice of him. He climbed across the stones that jutted out, grasping onto the rain worn stones, his fingers gliding over the faces of grotesque gargoyles as he climbed higher and further. Below him, there were girls laughing and playing. There were men practicing their drills. The King’s men prepared for the trip South. When he was climbing, he saw everything. But, he thought, no one saw him. _“Is this how the gods feel _?” He thought to himself. Bran moved from stone to stone climbing across the castle walls. Soon, he could hear voices. There was a man, and a woman. The man was saying something to the woman, and soon, they were making sounds, and Bran thought he shouldn’t be there. He could hear the sound of flesh on flesh. 

He heard them talking about his father. He heard his father’s name. He wanted to get closer. He was scared. He tried to get closer. The voices stilled. They heard him. A hand grabbed him. It was Jaime Lannister.

“How old are you?” He said.

“He saw us!” The queen hissed over and over.

Bran felt himself hurtling towards the ground. As he fell to the hard earth below the last word that he remembered hearing was “love.”

* * *

Sansa 

Bran fell. Maester Luwin said that if he made it past the first few nights, he was likely to live. Her mother had not left his bedside. Sansa, Arya and their Lord father were now to travel to King’s Landing alone. This is just as it had been. Sansa had kept to herself for the last few days. She was polite and courteous to everyone in the royal party, particularly Joffrey, as she didn’t want to cause her father any trouble before they left Winterfell. She was wary of the Queen. She kept a keen eye on Jaime Lannister. She watched her Lady mother as she tended to Bran, ignoring all else, including the household. The Princess, Myrcella, had invited her and Arya to ride with her in the wheelhouse. The princess Myrcella was as beautiful as her mother. She was tall for her age. She had long blonde hair, and deep green eyes. Unlike her mother, her eyes were warm, and her smile shone forth from them like a beacon. She looked forward to getting to know the Princess Myrcella better. 

Sansa walked through the castle to find her sister. When she saw her, she was playing in the courtyard with the cook’s boy. 

“Arya,” She said. 

Arya, looked up from her battle. She had been play fighting with the cook’s boy. They were batting sticks at each other as if they were swords. Her sister was covered in dirt and dust. 

Sansa continued, “We’re riding in the Queen’s wheelhouse. You’re going to want to dress nicely today.”

Arya jutted out her lip defiantly. “I don’t want to ride in a stupid wheelhouse. We won’t be able to see anything.”

“I know. But, we don’t want to disrespect the Queen. You wouldn’t want father to get into any trouble would you?” 

Arya weighed it out in her mind. “No...I guess not.” 

Sansa smiled, satisfied. “I think that grey velvet would suit you nicely. Also, come here.” Sansa put her arm around her sister’s shoulder. She began to walk with her over towards the kennels. She looked around to make sure that no one was watching or listening to them. 

“Come here,” Sansa said.

“Arya. We will need to stick together when we go to King’s Landing.”

“What do you mean?” Her sister asked skeptically.

“There are a lot of people there who don’t mean us well. Some of them may even be on this trip with us. I want you to promise me that you will stay close to me during this trip.”

She looked back at Sansa with a raised eyebrow. But she didn’t protest. “Do you know something?”

“Yes. But it’s complicated.”

“Does father know?” She asked.

“No. It will be between us. We need to watch out for father. There are people there that don’t want him to succeed as Hand.” Sansa explained.

“How do you know this,” her sister asked. 

“I dreamt it. You and I got separated in King’s Landing, and father lost his head. Robb started a war, and...you don’t want to know the rest. Just promise me.”

With narrowed eyes, she said, “I promise.”

They walked from the kennel. Sansa could feel her sister’s eyes watching her. “Are you a greenseer?”

Sansa only answered, “I can see the future. But its’ not greensight. None of it is good. We need to stick together.”

When she looked at her sister again, her face was solemn. It was a face she recognized. She knew that she had gotten through to her.

Sansa looked at her sister’s big grey eyes, “Keep Nymeria close to you at all times. Once we are on the road, you need her to protect you. Anyone that doesn’t want your wolf to be with you, doesn’t mean you any good, and winter is coming.”


	5. What Was Yet To Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is ticking away and Sansa begins to feel it.

> _ “The wolves knew when it was time to stop looking for what they'd lost, _
> 
> _ to focus instead on what was yet to come.” _
> 
> _ Jodi Picoult _
> 
> * * *

Winterfell 

Sansa felt Septa Mordane standing above her, watching her carefully as she stitched a silvery direwolf symbol onto the grey fabric that she held in her hands. As she passed by, Sansa noticed that the septa took her time to survey Sansa’s stitches before she walked over to attend to the princess. Sansa saw a smile forming at the corners of the Septa’s lips as she bent down to attend to the princess. Sansa herself had enjoyed talking to the young princess. The septa, Sansa noted, however, was beside herself. She fawned over Myrcella, even though her stitches looked just as crooked as Arya’s. The septa was especially excited today because today they were to take lunch with the princess and the Queen. Sansa stitched dutifully as she prepared herself to face the Queen’s attention with an iron spine, and a cool disposition. Before their lunch, she knew that she needed to speak privately with Arya. 

Once their lessons in the womanly arts had concluded, everyone went their separate ways. Beth and Jeyne had gone off elsewhere in the castle, and Sansa watched as the Septa gathered up her things, before waiting until she was out of sight to pull Arya aside. When out of Septa Mordane's sight, the two of them disappeared down another corridor, they huddled close together and walked towards Sansa’s rooms. They took care during their walk through the corridors to pay attention to any unfamiliar faces. Once they reached the door, Arya took one last glance into the corridors for anyone who might be planning on dropping eaves. They pulled two chairs over near the roaring fire in the hearth and made themselves comfortable. They warmed themselves near the fire, their faces close together, and their bodies hunched over near the flames.

Sansa wasn’t sure where to begin. Luckily, Arya broke through the silence. “Sansa, what were you saying about father?” Arya whispered.

“If father is too trusting in the capitol, he may lose his head.” Sansa took a deep breath as she said the last words. Her mind was threatening to bring back images that she would rather forget.

“King Robert won’t let that happen,” Arya said. 

Sansa had much less faith in King Robert than her sister did, so she said only, “He won’t be able to help us. He will be dead. He will ask father to rule as regent, but the queen will seize power for the prince instead.”

Sansa could see her father’s head rolling off of the executioner’s block as she said this. She could see his blood, vividly in her mind. She could see his eyes wide open in shock as the executioner’s ax came down swiftly. The angry faces in the crowd were seared into her brain. So too was Joffrey’s smile as he declared that he was giving her father mercy. The crowds in the capitol were merciless and cruel. She saw the angry screaming faces of the people as clearly, as the day that it happened. After a moment, she realized that she had been silent for far too long. She had been silently staring at her sister, and her sister’s face looked more than a little worried.

“Sansa…” Arya said, calling her back to the present. 

“And Joffrey does claim he will give our father mercy. He claims he will let him take the black. Then he takes his head.” Sansa continued. “He makes me watch. He makes me watch as the headsman takes our father's head. He made me watch, and he smiled. He put it---he put our father’s head on a pike and made me look at it. He made me watch it day by day as it decayed, and as ravens picked at his flesh. _ He made me look at it. _” Sansa hissed the last words. 

Her sister’s large dark eyes looked soft in the firelight. She was scared. Sansa began to think that this might be too much for a twelve-year-old. 

“Sansa, how did you see this?” 

“I don’t know.” _ She would never know how she got back. _ Sansa was resolved to do as much as she could to keep her family together now. 

“Can we stop it?” Arya asked earnestly.

“I”m...not sure. But we can try. We must try.” Sansa reached out to hold her sister’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“What about mother? And Robb? And Jon?” She asked with wide eyes. 

Sansa took a deep breath to steady herself. There were too many things, and it was too much. “Mother and Robb...Robb will call the banners. We will be at war with the Lannisters, and I shall be a captive in King’s Landing.” 

“You shall? Where will I be?” She asked.

“You will go to the free cities. To Braavos. You will train with swords. You’ll train with the faceless men.”

“This sounds like madness. Maybe it was just a dream?” Arya said hopefully before adding, “dreams don’t have to...to be prophecy, Sansa.”

_ Prophecy. _ Sansa turned the word over in her head. “I only wish it were a dream,” Sansa said. "A wise man I once knew used to say that prophecy was like a half-trained mule. It looked useful, but once you put your trust in it, it would kick you in the head. This is not a prophecy. Arya…Jon will give you a sword. You need to hold on to it.”

Before she could finish her thoughts, there was an insistent knock at the door. It was Jeyne Poole. She came in hurriedly, her face flushed.

“The queen is looking for you, Sansa.” 

_ This didn’t happen the first time. _ Sansa thought, and she looked at her sister. “ Where will you be?”

“I’m going to prepare for lunch,” Arya said. 

Sansa squeezed her sister’s hand. “I’ll see you then. We’ll speak more.”

Sansa noticed Jeyne regarding her curiously. Jeyne had been acting very oddly ever since Sansa’s return. She seemed to feel uneasy now that Sansa was resolved to be nicer to her sister. Maybe she missed the closeness that they had before. Sansa had never noticed before how many cruel japes were told at her sister’s expense. Regardless of the reason, seeing Arya and Sansa together seemed to unnerve Jeyne.

“I’ll be just a moment Jeyne,” Sansa said cheerfully. She watched as Jeyne closed the door behind her. Sansa and Arya shared one last look, and then Sansa walked to her unexpected early meeting with the queen. 

It was nearing midday. The sky was bright blue, and the sun peeked out through the clouds above the castle casting a warm glow across the summer snow. There was a light spattering of snow on the ground, but it wasn’t very cold, at least not for the north. The air was crisp and cool. It was perfect weather, Sansa mused, as she made her way to the Guest House, and she was going to spend most of it indoors. 

The Guest House sat across the courtyard facing the Great Keep. The rooms were well appointed and warm, courtesy of the hot springs that lay just beneath the windows. The inside of the Guest House was furnished comfortably, but simply, in the Northern style and it was reserved, in her lady mother’s words, “for important guests.” Sansa thought that it looked the part, It may not have met the level of grandeur and splendor that the queen and her retinue were used to, but it was one of the most comfortable places in all of Winterfell. Sansa passed the morning room, where she spied prince Tommen playing cards with his uncles. They were laughing together like children and seemed to be quite engrossed in their conversation. Sansa tried to pass by unnoticed, but as she walked by, Tommen spotted her.

“Good morning lady Sansa,” he said cheerfully, his fat cheeks still pink from laughter.

“Good morning Prince Tommen,” she smiled at him. When she passed the doorway, she saw Ser Jaime and Tyrion jesting amongst themselves.

At the sound of her voice, they looked up from their game and they nodded towards her, 

“My lady.” 

She curtsied and continued to the rooms where the queen sat, expectantly. Sansa saw that the halls were bustling with ladies maids, and knights, and soldiers. How her lady mother was feeding all of these people, she shivered to think. There were likely three hundred additional people inside these walls and outside these gates. From the way that she had to maneuver through the corridor, she felt that at least a hundred of them were inside the Guest House itself. She walked through the bustling hallway and towards where she knew that the queen waited for her. Past experience had informed her that Cersei did not like to be kept waiting.

Cersei sat alone and resplendent. She was seated on a comfortable chair and drinking deeply from the goblet that she held in her hands. She was dressed in green velvet, and on her hand was a beautiful gold ring adorned with a golden lion’s head that held a large round emerald in its mouth. 

“Have a seat little dove, she smiled.” She gestured towards the chair that sat by the smallish table nearby. Sansa saw that there was mulled wine and that the servants had several silver cups laid out for them. The silver tray on the table held a selection of small cakes arranged neatly. The queen took a sip of her mulled wine. Sansa poured a cup for herself. The wine smelled pungent and the scented steam it gave off was heady with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. 

“Eat, child.” She commanded, gesturing towards the table. Sansa obeyed. She grabbed a small cake from the platter that sat on the table next to them. The queen leaned back in her chair slightly, watching as Sansa made herself more comfortable.

“You are promised to my son. Are you happy about your betrothal?” 

“Yes. I’m excited to get to know the Prince.”

“Are you sad to be leaving your home and your family behind?” The queen questioned.

“King’s Landing will be my home. Arya will be with me, and father...and I shall be marrying the prince. ” 

At those words, the queen smiled, and Sansa nibbled at the edges of the spiced cake, continuing to watch the queen’s expressions carefully. 

Her eyes surveyed Sansa’s face, as she said, “Yes. You’ll marry the prince, and gods be good, you’ll bring little princes and princesses into this world. Would you like that?” Her voice sounded like a purr. But there was something about her countenance that felt as cool as a northern wind.

“That won’t be for a long while.” Sansa supplied.

“But...you will be queen. ” Cersei continued, Sansa noted that she was being quite reserved. 

“Gods be good,” was Sansa’s reply. A small smile quirked at the corners of Cersei’s lips. 

“I’ve asked them to make lemon cakes for you, little dove. I’ve heard that they’re your favorite.”

“That’s very kind of you, your grace.” Sansa smiled. 

This earned a slight nod. “The prince won’t be there,” the queen said, lowering her eyes, and taking a small sip of her wine. “He shall be off hunting with his father. I suspect that they will make a day of it.”

Sansa smiled. “It’s good weather for it, your grace.”

“My... you are a sweet thing. I thought you might like to get more acquainted with the family. Would you like that?”

“I should. I think I should very much like having Myrcella for a sister.” This was true. Sansa did like the princess very much. She was exactly the kind of sister that Sansa had always wanted. 

The queen smiled. This time the smile seemed genuine. “I suspect that you will want to dress for lunch. I only wanted the chance to speak to you alone.” 

Sansa sipped her drink, and let herself enjoy the pleasing warmth that it gave her, as it slipped down her throat. The warmth seemed to radiate throughout her chest. The warming spices were nice, she mused as she cupped the flagon in both of her hands, inhaling the warm steam. The Queen was trying to sketch out a picture of her character, she mused. 

Once she was dismissed, she walked back towards the main keep. The hallways were still fairly busy. There were a lot of handmaids and manservants, and soldiers. She almost collided with several people as she made her way back to the corridor near the morning room. As she turned the corner, she almost walked directly into Tyrion Lannister. He looked as if he had been deep in thought. Defensively, she stretched out both of her hands and braced herself on his shoulders to prevent their bodies from colliding in the hallway. She was mortified.

He merely looked amused. 

“Are you still enjoying the library at Winterfell, my lord?” She asked. She wasn’t sure what to say, and it felt awkward to say nothing.

He smiled at her. “Yes. The library is well-appointed my lady. Tell your mother and father. There are many interesting and rare volumes. “ 

“I shall tell them, my lord.” 

‘How did you enjoy your meeting with my sister?” He said with a raised eyebrow. “Are you excited about your betrothal to my nephew.”

_ He knows. _ She thought to herself. He knows that I loathe his despicable nephew. Even as she thought this, she knew that there was no way that he could know. He was merely asking because he personally knew what a monster Joffrey was.

“Yes,” she pushed the words from her throat. She imagined the words hanging in the air between them. Lord Tyrion continued to inquire after her family. 

“How does your brother recover?” He asked.

“Maester Luwin says that he has gotten through the most troubling time,” Sansa replied.

“I will stop by his sickroom to see him before I depart.”

“Thank you, my Lord, that’s very kind.” _ It was very kind _ , she thought. The prince had offered no such comfort. _ Nor, had the queen _. Sansa noted. He was the only member of the royal party, other than King Robert to ask after her brother at all.

Sansa smiled at him. “When are you to depart, my Lord?”

“I shall begin my journey north with your half-brother the same day that your Lord father, and the royal party depart for the south.”

“I wish you safe travels, my Lord.” She curtsied. 

He regarded her with stoic scrutiny as she took her leave of him. She turned on her heels and walked towards the archway, and soon she was inhaling the cool air of the courtyard. 

_ Did he somehow sense her feelings about his nephew? _ In truth, she wondered if she had been noticeably less smitten with him. Her priorities had changed. She knew that Joffrey was a monster. She could not erase the memory of him having her stripped and beaten at court. She could not erase the memory of him torturing her, no matter how nice he was to her right now. She knew that it was going to change. She knew that it was false. She knew that they would never marry.

As she crossed the courtyard, she saw Jon talking to the castle blacksmith, Mikken. She had never spent a lot of time with Jon. When they reunited, she felt guilty for the ways that she had often treated him. As she watched him now, she was hesitant to approach him. Swallowing her unease, she walked directly towards him. He eyed her approach skeptically. 

“Hello, Jon.” 

“Lady Sansa,” he said, bowing his head to her.

“When will you leave for the North?” He seemed surprised that she was speaking to him.

“I’ll be leaving with Uncle Benjen. We’ll be heading for the north while you head south. The queen’s brother is to go with us. He says he wants to peer off the edge of the world.” 

Sansa smiled at this. “Jon I want to wish you a safe journey. May the gods smile on you. I know I haven’t always been kind to you. But you’re my blood, and we are a family...I know that you will do well.”

“What’s gotten into you, Sansa?” He asked, “You’ve never so much as spoken to me in private since you were old enough to know what a bastard was…”

“You are my blood. I know that you feel you have no place here. I know that you feel that there is nothing for you. But know that as long as you have a family, you always have a place.”

“Thank you.” He said to her, his face forming into the glimmer of a smile.

“I wish you safe travels, Jon Snow..” She said. “Listen to me, Jon. There are a lot of wonders North of the wall, or so I’ve read. Promise me that you will write to me.”

He looked at her then, his deep grey eyes looking a lot like Arya’s. “I promise.”

“Like father always says, “winter is coming.”

“Aye. Winter is coming,” he replied. 

She walked away then, and she could feel Jon’s eyes watching her. She hoped that she had given him some comfort. But, she felt like she was keeping something from him. She also didn’t want to reveal too much. The most important thing was the look that she saw in his eyes. The look in his eyes told her that he would write. He had made a promise. 

Lions and Wolves 

Lunch was uneventful. The princess Myrcella was beautiful and sweet. She was tall, and graceful. Sansa noticed several times as she cast flirtatious smiles in Robb’s direction as they left their luncheon. Myrcella was of an age with Sansa. She wondered if this might be a way to get out of her own betrothal to Joffrey. Robb was not very much older than her. Sansa and Arya went their separate ways after lunch, with Sansa determined to speak to her lord father. Her father was, she knew, in his solar. She found him there, working on a ledger. He did not see her as she approached, and he looked to be very intently studying the ledgers that sat before him. She knocked tentatively on the open door, to get his attention.

“Father,” she said, stepping into his view.

He looked up from the ledger, setting it down on top of the pile of raven scrolls that sat on the table before him. He looked at her with tired eyes.

“Have a seat.” He gestured to her. “Are you excited about your betrothal to the prince?”

“I wanted to talk to you about...betrothal.”

“Yes. The prince,” he sighed, “Are you sure that this is what you want? That boy is...no Prince Aemon. If you had seen his behavior today...I promise you Sansa, that I will make you a match with someone worthy of you, someone brave, gentle and strong. I fear that this match was a terrible mistake.”

Seeing an opening she replied, “I fear the same. Is there any way out of it?”

“King Robert is intent on joining our houses.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She said. “The princess, Myrcella...she is quite smitten with Robb…”

Her father leaned back in his chair. “I see.”

“Robb is almost a man grown Sansa. The princess is…”

“The princess is of an age with me...she’s actually older than me. Do you think that King Robert would agree to a match between them?”

“I...Sansa...where did this come from? Her mother may not smile kindly on the match. She’s a very strong willed woman Cersei Lannister. It would mean that her daughter---her only daughter---would be moving here...to Winterfell.”

“Yes...I know. If we cannot break my betrothal without insulting the King and Queen, then that means that I am to go to King’s Landing. The alliance would be secure then, surely? If Myrcella were to be...betrothed to Robb.”

“Does Robb know that you are trying to match him off?” Ned laughed heartily, and Sansa wondered if he was seriously considering it. 

“Father,...I don’t want to marry the prince…I don’t want to go to King’s Landing.” Sansa felt on the verge of tears. She felt that she was running out of time to save her father. 

“Shhh, Sansa….” Her father rose from his chair, and came to soothe her. He knelt down beside her, speaking to her softly, and smoothing her hair, “I will talk to the King, but I don’t know how much good it will do.”

Sansa gazed up at him. “I need to speak with you about something else as well.”

“Besides brokering marriages?” He laughed.

“Yes...something more serious.” She began, and at that, she noticed the mirth in his expression. “Arya and I, I think...should train and learn to defend ourselves?”

He stood up and walked back behind his desk. “Defend yourselves from?”

“Rapers….we will be travelling on the Kingsroad.”

“He cocked his head to one side in disbelief. “You won’t be travelling alone. I will be with you.”

“But what about when you can’t be with us?” Sansa continued.

“Are you frightened?” He asked, “Why would I not be with you? Sansa?” 

“What if something were to...happen to you? Arya and I would be defenseless…” 

“Gods be good Sansa...are you intent on becoming a knight now?”

“No...I’d just like to learn to...wield a dagger…” His wide eyes told her that this seemed like madness to his ears, but she continued. “There are people in King’s Landing...who..may not mean us well.”

“Aye…from the mouths of babes.” He agreed. 

“The last hand of the king was taken ill quite suddenly...what if the same thing were to happen to you?” Sansa asked.

“Do you have more requests your grace?” He asked jokingly. 

“I want to talk to you about Aunt Lysa.” At these words, her father got up and closed the door to his solar.

“What about your Aunt Lysa, Sansa?”

“I believe that she has conspired with someone inside King’s Landing to poison her husband. I know that you are going to try to investigate his death...but you shouldn’t. I can tell you exactly what happened.”

“You’re talking madness.” He said, scoffing.

“Am I?” Sansa continued, “I know that a childhood friend of my mother and Aunt Lysa’s is in the capitol. I know that she was at one time in love with him. I know that she thinks that she will be able to be with him, now that her husband is out of the way. I know that she conspired along with this man to throw suspicion onto the Lannisters.”

“Sansa...you’re unwell. Maybe it is too soon for you to be entering into any betrothals...or to be travelling so far…”

“Listen to me father. I’m telling you the truth. This man, he will be a part of the small council. He will betray you. He has already had our Aunt Lysa send a raven here to her own sister accusing the Lannister’s of murder.”

“How do you know about this? You shouldn’t...”

“I know about it because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen you lose your head to the headsman’s ax. You were executed for treason.” Sansa could feel her body shaking. “ Joffrey had Ilyn Payne chop off your head. He tortured me. He made me look at it, every day, even as I watched it rot. He would not send your bones home to be buried in the crypts…” Sansa felt the hot tears rolling down her cheeks, but she couldn’t stop talking.

Her father sat before her stunned into silence. 

“Mother will go after you, she will go to King’s Landing, and on her way back to Winterfell, she will take Tyrion Lannister hostage, believing him to be responsible for trying to murder Bran...and we will be at war with the Lannisters. Robb will call the banners. He will try to avenge you. He will fail.”

“Sansa...you’re talking madness.”

“What can I tell you that will make you believe?”

“I’m going to call for Maester Luwin.” Her father said, rising from his chair.

Sansa grabbed at the brown jerkin, that he wore, trying to make him stop and listen. Trying to make him stand still and hear her.

“I am not unwell. I have seen this. If I tell you something that no one else can know, will you believe me?”

“Something that no one can know?” He said, curiously, watching her. 

“I know who Jon’s mother is.”

Her father stood still, as if he was rooted to the floor. He stopped where he was, and just stared at her.

“Sansa…”

“I know that Aunt Lyanna is Jon’s mother. I know that his father is Rhaegar Targaryen. I know that you’ve kept this secret from our lady mother, even though she treated Jon despicably. Do you deny it?”

“Sansa…” He didn’t have any more words.

“I know that her last words to you were, “Promise me Ned,” and that you kept that promise despite the hurt that it did…”

“You can’t tell anyone about this. How do you know this? You haven’t told Jon?”

“I haven’t, and I won’t. I know why the secret needs to be kept. But do you believe me now? We have to change things...Father...maybe we can prevent…”

“Prevent what?”

“All of it. The horror.”

“Your mother? What about your mother? Have you told her any of this?”

“No. I haven’t told anyone anything...except Arya...I’m not sure what to do...What good is knowing the future if you can’t stop it from happening?”

Sansa crumpled into a ball then, finally letting herself relax. As the tension left her body, she began to cry. 


	6. Florian & Jonquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa feels weighted down by guilt. She wonders about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. For the purposes of this fanfic the characters are aged up slightly. I have kept the age differences stable between siblings. For the purposes of all of my Game of Thrones/ ASOIAF fanfics, they are usually show-verse. You may notice that I forgo things like: missing noses, mismatched eyes etc. 
> 
> Playing fast but not loose with story world.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**_Jonquil_ ** _ : A fool and a knight? I have never heard of such a thing. _

** _Florian_ ** _ : Sweet lady, all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned. _

_ The Hedge Knight, George R. R. Martin _

* * *

# Florian & Jonquil

Sleep was a long time coming. Sansa’s dreams of fire had begun to subside somewhat. But she still had trouble sleeping. She had half a mind to request dreamwine. But she feared that she would become dependent on it. So she tried to fall asleep naturally. She stared out into the darkness of her room from the warmth of her featherbed. She paced around her room, padding around with slippered feet in the darkness. She warmed herself by the fire. She read by candlelight until her eyelids began to feel heavy and thick. When finally sleep took her, the sleep was fitful and filled with flashes of the past. As the voyage South crept closer, her dreams began to include her past life in King’s Landing. She had no love for King’s Landing. She would replay the horrors in her mind. She felt like the creator of her own and her family’s destruction. She felt it acutely. She felt her betrayal at night as she lay in bed. She stared out into the darkness replaying words from a lost time. 

Sansa’s biggest shame lived within the walls of the Red Keep. She had betrayed her family. She had gone to the queen, and told her of her father’s plans--all for the love of Joffrey. Joffrey who cast her aside like a broken plaything. Joffrey who had her beaten and degraded, and stripped before the court. Joffrey who cast her aside for the Lady Margaery, but still took time to torture her. She had trusted Cersei. She had looked to her as a second mother. Cersei had used that trust as a weapon. She had learned a lot from her, at least. If she learned anything, it was that anything can be a weapon, if you know how to wield it. Sansa’s weapon of choice had been a woman’s courtesy. 

Sansa remembered how Cersei had smiled so sweetly, and kissed her as if she were her own daughter. Her voice sounded as soft as a kiss as she convinced Sansa to write letters to Robb, and her Lady mother. Her voice was as sweet as honey as she sent away Jeyne Poole and Jeyne was never to be seen by her again in the capitol. 

Joffrey was a monster of Cersei’s making, and yet she could not control him. Cersei had stood by powerlessly, and let the monster take off her father’s head. _ It was my fault. _ Sansa repeated to herself over and over in her thoughts. She hated herself for her actions in King’s Landing. She could feel the hatred unfurling inside her like a ball of thread, tangling itself, and choking her. She needed to occupy her mind with something else. _ She needed to occupy her mind with anything else. _ Every time that she closed her eyes, a new horror popped into her head. 

She wanted to be Queen. She could be still. _ But Joffrey. _ When she had gone to King’s Landing the first time her head had been filled with stories of the valiant Prince Aemon and of doomed love affairs, and songs of romance, like that of Florian and Jonquil. Yet through everything that she had experienced, she had never experienced a great romance--never experienced love. Even to think about it now, she felt like Florian, a fool. Who would sing a song for her, she wondered, as she drifted off to sleep. 

***

  
  


Three days before the voyage to the South, the Starks feasted the royal party one last time at Winterfell. Sansa sat apart from everyone in the hall, watching. She sipped her glass of wine at one of the long wooden tables, watching as the grey and white banners that adorned the hall fluttered above them. The sigil of the direwolf seemed to be alive in the firelight that shone from the candles on the table. There was a singer with a voice so high and so sweet that it almost made Sansa want to weep. He played the harp, and sang, mournfully of wind swept lovers. Sansa wondered if she would ever actually feel love like that. She had never been in love, not really. She had thought herself in love with Joffrey. But that was a shadow. She thought once more, when she met Ramsay Snow, that maybe she could find love with him. But he was a monster. In the distance Sansa watched as Robb and Myrcella talked and laughed near the end of the long table. The Queen watched them as well. Although Sansa sensed her displeasure, she kept her face a mask of civility and calm, until her eyes stopped on the King. The king, Sansa now knew, was never one to miss a chance for amusements. He laughed and talked and bellowed loud enough to fill the hall with his mirth. He pawed at all of the serving girls as they passed him, and was generally a loud and drunken mess. He was an embarrassment to his queen. Her face showed it. He paid her no mind however, he ate and drank and indulged himself, and only the Queen and her beautiful brother seemed to show any signs of displeasure. After one particularly raucous fit of laughter, he pulled a serving girl onto his lap, drunkenly, his face flushed and red, and he began to kiss her on the neck. 

The hall was filled with the aroma of roasted meat, and freshly baked bread, and the tables were well apportioned with the same. A fire roared in the hearth, and the men and women who would be leaving on the journey sat around in jovial and drunken conversation for probably the last time, for quite some time. Sansa wished that she felt jovial. Her eyes scanned the room for her sister, but she was nowhere to be found. She had probably disappeared somewhere in the castle to play with the servant’s children.

Joffrey was sitting at the high table with his mother. He had been on his best behavior when in her presence. Every now and then she would catch glimpses of his cruelty in the way that he treated the others around him. He was only nice to you if he deemed you important, or he feared you. But he was on his best behavior around Sansa, _ so long _ , Sansa thought, _ as they remained within the walls of Winterfell. _ Her lord father had pleaded his case to the King about breaking the betrothal, and he had been unmoved. Sansa was still to marry Joffrey. There was no getting around it, as far as she could see. 

Ned Stark did not say another word about any of what Sansa told him. But she spent several hours telling him of the future. He was true to his word in having a dagger crafted for Sansa, and she was being taught to wield it. Her sister was also being taught to wield a sword. She was being trained to use the sword that Jon had given her. She had named it “Needle.” Their lord father had hired a Braavosi swordsman to teach her how to wield it. Jon had given her the perfect sword. It was not a broadsword. It was a long, thin, flexible blade and wiry, just like her sister.

Sansa looked up from her cup, to see that Joffrey was walking over towards her. He threw his long leg across the bench and sidled up next to her, smiling.

“What troubles you my lady?” He asked, and he brushed a tendril of her auburn hair away from her face. His touch was gentle, but unexpected. She almost flinched. But she was thankful that her body did not betray her. 

“I’m not troubled, your grace.” She looked into his eyes, and gave a small smile. 

“Good, good. My mother has invited you to ride in the wheelhouse with her.”

“That’s very good of her.” Sansa smiled. Sansa remembered how just the idea of being alone with the prince had given her a fluttering feeling inside her stomach. She would never feel that way again. 

“It is a great honor.” Sansa smiled demurely. 

“I wouldn’t want to see a frown on your beautiful face.” Joffrey took Sansa’s hands into his own, and he looked at her with a gracious smile. 

As he said those words, she remembered the amusement in his voice as he would say to Meryn Trant “_ Leave her face. I like her pretty” _ as he ordered her to be beaten and stripped _ . _She watched as he walked back to the raised platform, where his mother sat, and he whispered something in her ear. While she was engaged in watching the prince and Queen, Arya appeared as if by magic, and moved to sit near her.

“Sansa,” she said just above a whisper.

Sansa turned to look at her sister’s face, “What was that about?”

“We’re to ride in the wheelhouse with the queen.” Sansa sighed.

“Is she upset about Myrcella?” Arya asked.

“Likely...yes. But it is done.” Sansa took a sip of her wine. She was only allowed one cup of wine during the feast. But she felt as if this night required more than one cup of wine. 

Arya continued, “I’m surprised father was able to convince the King to betroth his daughter to Robb.”

“I’m not.” Sansa replied. “He wants to secure the allegiance of the North...his daughter will be in a position to help him do that.” 

Arya shrugged. “So Myrcella is staying here?”

“Yes. I think it’s a good thing. It will help to bridge the gap between our families.” Sansa said reasonably.

“There is no gap between our families.” Arya said incredulously.

“Has Bran woken?” Sansa changed the subject.

“He is in and out of sleep. I find it hard to believe that he fell. He’s an excellent climber.” Arya said, grabbing a carrot from one of the platters that sat before them. She popped it into her mouth. 

“When we leave for the South, someone will come here to try to...ease his suffering. They will try to attack him with a dagger. I want you to convince our mother to let him keep his wolf by his bedside at ALL times.”

“Why would anyone want to kill Bran? Sansa?” 

“Because he knows something. The only thing that you need to know is that Bran needs to keep his wolf by his bedside. Mother has been by his bedside weaving those totems out of straw, and the wolves make her uneasy. I know that she thinks that a wolf is not a pet. She is right. They are not. They are weapons.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “I will talk to her. Why aren’t you smitten with your boy prince? I thought that you would be happy to be betrothed…and to be Queen.”

“After all that I’ve told you...you still thought this…” Sansa said.

“Okay...well maybe not after all that you’ve said, but you are acting out of character. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to call off the betrothal.”

“I’ve tried to get out of it. To no avail.” she sighed, taking a deeper sip of her wine.

“I don’t think you’ll be going to Braavos anymore. I don’t know what is going to happen now.” Sansa said, her eyes scanning the tables around the room, watching the lively conversations.

“Try not to look so solemn, sister.” Arya said, and then she walked off towards the kitchens. Sansa knew that her sister liked to play with the cook’s boy.

Sansa was tired of talking. She was tired of people. She wanted to clear her head. She decided to walk to the godswood. She remembered how it had been a place of comfort for her in King’s Landing It was the only place that she could go to be alone. She walked through the courtyard, and into the Godswood. The Godswood in Winterfell was wild and beautiful, and thousands of years old. She walked through the forest path towards the heart tree that stood at the center of the Godswood. She looked at the tree’s solemn face. Near the deep black pool of water that sat at the foot of the ancient tree, she sat down on a large rock formation. 

As she sat by the still pool, drinking her wine, she began to hear muffled voices in the courtyard. She followed the sound. Just beyond the trees she could see the prince. He was talking to one of the Kingsguard. She thought she heard Bran’s name. _ Bran. _ But why? She wondered what he would do if she were to step out and show herself now. She waited for silence before walking into the courtyard herself. She was going to go back to the castle. 

There were people milling about in the courtyard. Many were leaving the feast to return to their own quarters. She saw Arya and the cook’s boy playing near the kennels. She walked over towards the kennels. As she reached them, she called out to lady. Lady came bounding out to her, and she playfully nipped at Sansa’s hands as she received her affections. 

“I’ve got nothing for you lady.” Sansa said, looking down at the direwolf. It seemed that lady understood her. Lady followed Sansa as she walked back to the Great Hall. She would bring Lady to bed with her tonight. She walked into the hall, with lady padding along beside her softly. She sat down at a table close to the fire, to warm herself after her walk. She grabbed a leg of roasted duck from one of the platters that sat on the table before her, and she began to strip off small pieces for lady, feeding her underneath the table. She could see Septa Mordane watching her disapprovingly from the corner of the hall, but she didn’t care. The prince had gone back to the Guest House, with his mother, the Queen, but his father and uncles remained. The beautiful one, the one they call the Lion of Lannister to his face, and the Kingslayer behind his back, seemed to be engaged in lively conversation with his brother. Myrcella and Robb were still talking together. Seeing them made something ache inside Sansa’s chest. Myrcella looked happy and absolutely smitten. Her brother was kind, and good, and would treat her well. She would be the lady of Winterfell one day. If all went well. _ When does all go well, Sansa? _She thought to herself. She had never experienced it. Maybe, she thought, Robb and Myrcella would be as happy as her mother and father. Sansa had once wanted the same thing. She noticed that she wasn’t the only one watching the princess. Every now and then, as she watched them, she would catch Lord Tyrion’s eyes on them as well. Maybe he envied their young love, Sansa mused. Even after their sham of a marriage, she had not seen him take another woman to wife. 

Lady began to whimper beneath the table. Sansa cooed at her, and bent her head down to peek below the table. 

“It’s alright Lady, I’m here.” She said, and she gently rubbed Lady’s ear. Soon she felt Lady’s warm soft fur beneath her skirts, as she nuzzled her leg and cuddled up against her feet. After a while she could feel her breathing become more calm and Lady fell asleep. 

Lord Tyrion came over to warm himself by the fire as well, and he filled himself a cup of wine with the flagon from her table. He tipped the flagon towards her with a nod of his head, as if he were offering her a glass as well.

“No. Thank you, my Lord. I’m only allowed one glass of wine at feasts,” she said. In truth, she wanted another. 

He took a sip of his wine, and sat on the bench beside her. Lady began to stir. Sansa rubbed her soft fur beneath the table with her slippered foot. 

“So, your brother is to wed my niece? They seem to be quite enjoying each other’s company.” 

Sansa looked up at them. “Yes,” she said with a slight smile. “They do seem quite well suited.”

“Where is your betrothed? Why are you sitting all alone?” He asked.

“I’m not alone, my Lord.” she smiled at him then, and looked at him in earnest. There was something mournful in his face. She wondered if he had always looked that way. 

“What will you do once you leave the wall, my Lord?” She picked up a small piece of bread from the platter in front of her, and began tearing it with her hands. She needed to do something with her hands. 

“I will probably return to the Rock.” He said with resignation.

“I see. What do you hope to see at the Wall?” 

“I’d like to see the Wall itself. So far I’ve only read of it. What other opportunities might I have to be within easy reach of such a wonder?” He said, grabbing grapes from the platter of fruit that sat on the table. 

“What do you know of the wall?”

Tyrion took a sip of his wine before answering her. “It stretches hundreds of miles and is made from solid ice. In the light it appears to change color depending on the time of day, or the weather. I’ve heard it was built with magic.” He scoffed at the last word.

“You don’t believe in magic?” She asked incredulously.

“I believe... that people believe in magic. I believe in what I can see.” He said plainly. 

“What do you see right now?” Sansa’s voice was playful. 

“I’m not quite sure,” he said before taking another sip of his wine.

“Magic is very real.” Sansa said assuredly.

The little Lord of Lannister cocked an eyebrow at her, “What do you know of magic, Lady Stark”

Sansa fidgeted with her hands idly as she thought of an answer. 

“Did the bread do something to harm you my Lady?” He asked, smiling. 

Sansa looked down at her hands to see that there was a small pile of bread on the table in front of her. She looked down at it and laughed. Her laugh carried throughout the hall. A few curious eyes turned towards them now. 

“I think that you believe in more than you let on.” She said finally. 

“How do you know this? Magic?” He laughed then at his own words.

“Is that so funny? Do you refuse to allow that there may be some things that you don’t understand?”

“Like grumkins and snarks?” 

“Do you ask because you believe in them, my Lord?” She asked with a raised brow. 

“Tales from a wet nurse.” He scoffed.

“What about the white walkers?” Sansa wondered if she had ever been so hesitant to believe. 

“Have you seen a white walker? Are they prevalent here at Winterfell?”

At this, Sansa felt a chill. She had seen them here at Winterfell. During the battle at Winterfell, she had seen them, and they were frightening and cold. She wanted to shiver just thinking about how cold it was. _ But would she have believed it, if she had been told _ , she wondered. _ If she had not seen it with her own eyes? _ Sometimes when she closed her eyes at night she still saw it. She still dreamt of the fateful night she spent in the crypts, listening to the battle as it waged above them. She still heard the strangled cries for help, the banging at the doors. She still remembered the deathly silence. She had fought side-by-side with the man sitting next to her right now, casting doubt on the existence of magic. He had looked at her with eyes wet with fear, but full of tenderness, and he had kissed her gloved hand. 

“It’s a wonder that you want to see the Wall at all, since you think it so useless.” She said. She began to gather up her skirts, waking Lady from her quiet slumber. 

“Safe travels my Lord,” she said, and she stood to leave. Lord Tyrion rose with her. As she left the hall she could feel his eyes watching her following her from the hall.


	7. To Run With the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn sits vigil by Bran's side. Tyrion ventures North with Jon Snow.

> “To run with the wolf was to run in the shadows, the dark ray of life, survival and instinct. A fierceness that was both proud and lonely, a tearing, a howling, a hunger and thirst. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst.”
> 
> O.R. Melling

* * *

# To Run With the Wolf

Catelyn Stark sat vigil by her son’s bedside. Occasionally something in his dreams would upset him, and she watched warily as she saw the furs that surrounded his little body rise and fall. “He looks so pale,” she thought to herself. She wanted to move his bed, somewhere that he could get at least a little bit of sun. She was going to have the servants do it, she told herself, as soon as she felt that he was well enough. Her hands worked feverishly, weaving a small totem out of straw. It will protect him, she repeated to herself as she twisted the strands of straw between her tired fingers. As she wove, she prayed to the mother, “Protect him, spare my son, watch over him.” 

She wondered if the Mother would show her this mercy. Each day and night she sat in Bran’s room, watching him. She would watch as his muscles twitched in fits and starts, his body frail and pale. He was only comfortable when his wolf was next to him, she noticed. His body seemed to relax when the she-wolf was near. Arya had begged her to keep the wolf by Bran’s side at all times. She had told her some madness about Sansa having green dreams. So as much as she hated to hear the sound of the wolves, and as much as she hated the sight of them, she had given in. She would do anything to protect her sweet boy. 

Bran was always a happy boy. He was always smiling, and laughing. He loved to climb. He was good at it. No matter what she said to him, and no matter what she had told him... and no matter how many times she warned him, he would not stop climbing the castle walls. 

When she carried Bran in her belly, she had thought he might be the last child that she would bring into the world. She was wrong. The gods have seen fit to give her one more. But Bran was her special boy. When he was born,he was a pink squalling thing, so small that when she held him she was afraid that he would break like a little egg. He looked like a bird freshly hatched and featherless. She cried, and screamed and wailed. The pain, so much pain---she called out to the mother for mercy. She had been so grateful when finally she held him in her arms, and saw his blue eyes looking up at her. He had fought to come into this world. He would fight to stay in it, she told herself. 

The wolf, though it gave Bran comfort, unnerved her. At night in the darkness she would shiver in her bed as she heard the wolves crying out into the darkness. She hated the sound. She wanted them to stop. There was something about the sound of wolves howling that made you feel as defenseless as a lamb. She had told Ned when he brought them home, “Wolves are not pets.” She had told him, but it had been too late. All of the children had grown to love their wolves. They had pet them, and fed them and given them names. All except Bran. Bran’s wolf had no name. 

Bran’s wolf sat at his bedside now, curled up in a semicircle. The wolf slept soundly now, and so did Bran. It’s almost like they are connected, she thought, but she pushed the thought away. 

She blamed herself for him falling. It shouldn’t have happened. She had made it so. It was her fault that Bran fell. Catelyn knew that--- if she knew anything. She had prayed that he be allowed to stay with her. She had asked the gods, “please let Bran stay, let me keep him.” The gods had answered. 

Bran had been excited to go to the South. He wanted to see the great Barristan the Bold, a Knight of the Kingsguard. He had been promised that he would be able to meet him. Now, Catelyn was afraid he might never wake. She would never see his easy smiles again. 

The Stranger was coming to take her sweetest boy, her favorite boy. “Mother protect him,” she thought, and her hands continued to work, to weave, to form the straw into some totem for him, a shield against the darkness, a shield against the cold--a shield against death. 

Catelyn put the small totem that she held tightly in her hand down on a table next to Bran’s bedside, and she bent down to kiss him on his forehead. She brushed a soft lock of his brown hair away from his face, and it felt damp with sweat. 

As she stood above his bed, she became aware of footsteps in the corridor. She could hear the soft clamor of chains.  
  


Maester Luwin stood in the doorway behind her.

“My lady, the royal visit is coming to an end, you’ll want to look over the ledgers.”

Catelyn could have spat venom at him. She didn’t care about the ledgers. Her sweetest boy was in his sickbed. “_ The others take the ledgers _!” she wanted to scream. 

She turned to him, her spine as straight as a rod, and her voice dripping with ice, “I need to be here. I need to be here...for Bran.”

Maester Luwin held the lamp in his hand, his face motionless. He stood still watching and waiting for her to say something, anything more. 

She only looked back at him, her mouth a tight line. She had said everything that she intended to. Her boy needed her. 

“There are also,” he said, clearing his throat, “issues of the household...a great many are going South with Lord Stark my lady. We need to…”

Catelyn turned to him with icy fury. “Leave me.” Her voice was as sharp as edged steel. 

Robb stood in the doorway watching his mother, unsure of what to say or what to do. Maester Luwin bowed towards him and retreated from the sickroom. Robb’s eyes followed warily as the Maester disappeared down the hallway. He hurried down the corridor, a flurry of grey with the lamp light casting odd shadows of his figure against the ash gray stone. 

“Mother,” Robb entreated, “Rickon needs you. We all need you. There is nothing you can do for Bran.”

Catelyn studied Robb’s face. Robb had auburn hair, and blue eyes like her own, and like Sansa’s. They didn’t have the Stark look, she thought as she considered him now. He was angry at her. “I would do the same for you,” she said, with a cold, even tone in her voice that told Robb that there was no more conversation to be had. 

But he was stubborn. Something in him did not bend to the ice in her voice. “Father and the girls are going south, are you going to see them off? You have more than one child.” He stood in the doorway, his eyes seeming to look more grey than blue in the candlelight. She saw his father in his face in that moment.

No matter what he said, she was not leaving Bran’s side. This was her fault. She had made it so. She had prayed for him to stay. Now he would. Now he would stay. _ She had done it. _ She would never forgive herself.

Robb could see that there was nothing that he could say. They stood facing each other, neither wanting to be the first to look away. After a long silence, he left her to her pity. She would sit in it. It was what she deserved. She picked up the chair that she had been sitting in, and moved it closer to Bran’s sickbed. She could only ask the Mother for another mercy. “Protect him. Protect my son,” she said, and she sat down next to Bran. She held his hand. She grasped it tightly. She sat there with him, listening to his labored breathing. She watched him late into the night. She watched him until the early dawn. She never left his side, even as the light broke above the towers of Winterfell. She whispered her prayers into the darkness with his cold hand clasped in hers, and she spoke her prayers into the silence of his room.

  
  


***** **

Tyrion Lannister rode North. The royal party was departing on the same day. He brought along with him some of his own men, Lannister men, loyal if not to him, to his name. None of them felt truly prepared for the journey ahead. The northern landscape was wild and unforgiving. They were going beyond it, out further towards the wall. The northmen called it the “true north.” Before departing for his journey, the little Lord saw his brother off and wished him safe travels. The Northern party started their journey early. The weather favored them. They departed on a cool morning, and beneath a bright blue sky. Tyrion was eager to see the wall with his own eyes. He had read about it since he had been a small child. This was his first time making the journey. He didn’t know what made him so intent on going to the wall this time, and not any other. He supposed that it was curiosity that propelled him forwards. From all that he had read, the wall was magnificent. It was a true man made wonder. The tallest structure built by men, or so he had heard. He had read of the majesty and wonder of the wall ever since he was a small boy. Tyrion rode north with the new Hand of the King’s brother, Benjen Stark, and Ned Stark’s bastard son, Jon Snow. The landscape in the north was as brutal and as cold as the countenance of his hosts. They passed into the wilds that sat outside the gates of Winterfell and then they passed beyond. Hours turned into days. Days passed and the terrain only became more wild and more beautiful. The air held a chill that he had never experienced in the South. Out here the kingsroad was a sprawling mass of green and gray. The farmland gave way to rugged mountainscapes of blue-grey that stretched towards the skies like the wings of an ice dragon. As they passed through small towns and holdfasts they picked up new recruits for the Night’s Watch: Rapers, thieves, cutthroats and all of them signing up for their likely death. 

Tyrion noticed the demeanor of Jon Snow, and the quiet that settled between the men as they got closer to the “true North” was almost as bone chilling as the intermittent howling of wolves that kept him awake during the night. 

Tyrion felt all too familiar with the look that he saw in Jon Snow’s eyes. He had recognized that look on his own face, and in his own eyes. He too was a forgotten and unwanted son. Likely now, the boy knew that he was riding towards his death. Thankfully, he had found lively conversation with another man of the night’s watch that accompanied them, a man named Yoren. Yoren nodded at him as they reached a holdfast at the edge of the wolfswood and he brought back new recruits. Yoren himself was small, with dark quick eyes and a thick black beard. He was as rugged and tough as the terrain, but he had a light and lively humor when they entertained themselves at night by the campfires. 

“What brings you so far North?” He had asked Tyrion when they sat by the campfire one night. They had reached a stopping point outside of some meager holdfast just outside the Wolfswood and were approaching Last Hearth. 

. 

“The wall,” Tyrion had answered. “I’ve always wanted to see it. Truthfully, I’ve never been this far north.” 

They supped on provisions of salted cured venison and washed it down with a wineskin full of sour wine. It was tart and it burned as it went down Tyrion’s throat in a satisfying way. Jon sat silently across from him watching his new companions, Tyrion observed that he seemed sullen. The trek North had been tiring. The kingsroad up this way was wild and untamed. Reading a map had given him no indication how hard the trek would be. The ride was hard on him. His thighs ached and his legs were cramped and he was cold all the way through to his bones. The temperature had dropped below freezing as they ventured further and further. He had underestimated just how cold he would be. At night drinking was all that you could do to keep your mind off of the cold, but it seemed to make you colder. 

Jon Snow glared out from behind the firelight, watching their conversation.

“Jon Snow,” Tyrion addressed him. “Are you seeking your glory as part of the noble order of the Night’s watch,” he said with a wink.

Jon glared at him. They had a conversation earlier that may have added to the boy’s dark mood. He had been misled about the Night’s watch. Doubtless he had thought it a noble calling. Tyrion saw the disillusionment in his face, it reminded him of his brother’s face many a night after guarding the King’s rooms as he made a joke of their _ sweet _ sister with his many whores. Yes, Jon Snow’s face had the same cast. Disillusionment.

Ghost was also looking at him. He walked over towards Ned Stark’s bastard, eyeing him with curiosity. The Stark’s were a curious lot, Tyrion thought to himself. “What troubles you bastard?” He asked.

The look that he got back was not one of amusement. “Why do you care?” Jon spat back. 

“I don’t... but I hate to waste mediocre wine” he said, and he raised the wine skin towards the fire. “To cripples, bastards and broken things.”

Jon eyed him skeptically. “Aye.” 

“I spoke with your sister, Sansa. She’s very singular..” Tyrion continued.

“How so?” The boy asked.

Tyrion felt unnerved by the girl. There was something in her eyes that made her seem older than she was. “She speaks to me as if she knows me.” He said. 

Jon only took a resigned look across the flames of the campfire, eyeing his new brothers of the night’s watch. “_ Poachers, rapers and thieves...he had not imagined he was throwing his lot in with such people _,” Tyrion reflected.

He pulled the stopper from his wineskin and held it out towards Jon as a small concession, before saying, “My sister is not sure what to make of her.”

“Well,” Jon sighed, “she’s changed. She was quite sick. She’s been...different since she left her sickbed.” Jon took a sip of the wine that he had been offered. 

“She spoke to me of _ magic,” _the halfman scoffed. “I imagine she thinks you are here to fight the others, the white walkers...the grumkins and snarks.” 

“She’s hasn’t said as much to me. She 's only asked that I write to her.” Jon took a long swig of the sour wine. He swallowed it down with a grimace. 

“I would ask you the same." The dwarf said with a raised eyebrow, " It would be helpful to have a contact this far North.”

Jon eyed him skeptically, “What would you get out of it?”

“Knowledge. My mind is hungry. Knowledge is my food, bastard.” He said with a sly smile. 

Jon nodded, but he continued to absentmindedly pet ghost, who lay at his feet like a sentinel. “I don’t imagine I’ll have much time to write, dwarf.”

“Ah, well you will be too busy fighting grumkins and snarks and ice spiders.” Tyrion laughed then, and the sound made Ghosts’ ears perk up. He opened one red eye to stare at the dwarf warily.

“Are you going to King’s Landing with the rest of the royal party?”

“Gods no. I will be as far from that viper pit as possible. The whores of Casterly Rock might go begging through the streets if I don’t make it back to the Westerlands.” He said with a wink. 

“My father knew what this was...and he didn’t warn me.” Jon said, looking off into the distance. 

“Your father is an honorable man. He likely had his reasons,” He said, hoping that might give the boy some comfort. ”Fathers are often disappointing,” he sighed, taking another swig of wine. 

Tyrion’s own father had always regarded him as little more than a disappointment. He blamed him for his mother’s death, as if he had any say in it. “Remember what I told you bastard, all dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes.”


	8. A Woman's Courtesy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits Bran's sickroom. The royal procession reaches the Trident.

> “I lie here now as I once lay
> 
> in the crook of her arm, her creature,
> 
> and I feel her looking down onto me the way the
> 
> maker of a sword gazes at his face in the
> 
> steel of the blade” 
> 
> Sharon Olds- Why My Mother Made Me"
> 
> * * *

# A Woman’s Courtesy

Winterfell

Today was the day that Sansa had often dreamt about when she had been a stupid, little girl. She had dreamt of the Southron court---the majesty, the wonder, the pageantry. She had imagined gallant knights, chivalrous, and beautiful. That was not what she found when she went south. She found boorish knights who followed orders blindly and were as prone to cruelty as the men that they served. She found a Prince who loved to inflict pain, who would have sworn knights beat her until she was bruised and as purple as a piece of overripe fruit. She had found cruelty. She had found treachery. She had found herself in a nest of vipers. Her mother had not even seen her off last time. This time, she was determined to speak to her mother, and to try to prevent her from doing something reckless. 

Sansa made her way through the labyrinthine halls within the castle, and found herself in front of the door to the sickroom where her brother had lain in bed for the greater part of a moonturn. The sickroom was dark and the air felt musty and stale. Her brother lay abed covered by warm furs. He looked thin, frail even and his skin was as pale as milk. Sansa walked in to see her Lady mother sitting close to Bran’s bed, hovering above him and watching him with a tear-stained face. Her mother barely noticed that she was there. She wouldn’t have interrupted a scene such as this, truly, but today she was to leave, and she needed to speak with her mother. She wasn’t sure if she would ever see her again.

“Mother,” she spoke into the darkness. Her mother turned to her with tired, red eyes and she seemed to be far away in her thoughts.

“Sansa,” she said, her voice ragged and hoarse. 

She had likely been crying all night, Sansa imagined. She walked over to where her mother sat, and placed her hand on her shoulder gently.

“I need to talk to you. I don’t know when we will see each other again.” Her mother looked up at her then, as if seeing her for the first time.

“What is it, Sansa?” She asked.

“I need to talk to you about...Bran,” Sansa began hesitantly.

Her mother’s eyes widened, and she reached out her hand to touch Sansa’s, grasping it tightly. Sansa could feel the sweat in her mother’s palms, and her hand felt clammy and damp with it.

“What about Bran, Sansa?” Her question was almost a plea.

“Someone is going to come here to kill him.” Sansa spoke plainly.

“Why? Who? How do you know this?” 

Sansa had never seen her mother look so helpless. “A catspaw. A catspaw paid in gold by my betrothed.” 

“The Lannisters. I knew it,” her mother said, with venom dripping from her voice. 

“My betrothed.” Sansa paused. “ Listen to me, mother. The Prince. Joffrey. The words that I am saying to you cannot leave this room. Do you understand?”

“Sansa...why would Joffrey…”

“He thinks it’s a mercy. He is cruel. He is cruel and stupid.”

“This...this is who you are to marry?!?” Her mother rose from her chair now. 

“And Robb is to marry the sister.”

“Mother,... Myrcella is a wonderful and sweet girl.”

“And you’re to marry this monster,” Her mother said pacing in the dim candlelight.

“Yes. I must. I must do my duty, and marry him.”

“Sansa, you cannot marry this boy.” 

“Mother, I need you to listen to me.” Sansa pleaded. Her mother was willful. She saw now where Arya got it from. “You received a letter from our Aunt Lysa.”

“You shouldn’t know about that. How do you know that?”

“I saw it. In a dream.” Sansa lied. “When I was in my sickbed.”

Her mother stared open mouthed. “Arya talked some madness about you having green dreams.”

“It’s not madness. I know that my Aunt Lysa has accused the Lannisters of poisoning her Lord husband. It is not true. She poisoned him. She did it herself. She did it so that she could be with Petyr Baelish.”

“Petyr...Little Petyr...How do you know about Petyr?” Her mother looked pale.

“Petyr Baelish wants us to be at war with the Lannisters. He aims to frame Tyrion Lannister for the attack on Bran. He is hoping that you will do something rash...he is hoping that you will take him hostage and it will start a war.”

“Sansa...this is madness.” Her mother sat down now. Her face was pale and tired.

“Tyrion Lannister is a good man.” Sansa said, “He will come here, to do a kindness for Bran. You should grant him lodging here at Winterfell.”

“Sansa, what are you talking about?”

Sansa’s heart beat fast in her chest. She didn’t know what to do. How could she make her see? She knelt down by her mother’s side, looking up at her

. 

“Mother,” she said, gently caressing her mother’s cheek, “please listen. We need you. I need you to stay here at Winterfell.”

“Does something happen to me?”

Sansa felt a stabbing feeling in her chest. “Yes. If you leave Winterfell.... Please promise me. Promise me you will stay here.”

“I can’t promise anything Sansa. I will do whatever I need to do to keep my family safe.”

Sansa felt her anger rising. She began to feel warm and flushed. She wanted to scream. “I am your family. You will keep us safe! You will keep us safe by staying here! Why can’t you see that? You don’t need to be traipsing all over the country! You need to take care of Rickon! You need to take care of Bran! We need you!” 

Sansa collapsed onto the floor, and she began to sob. The sobs shook her body violently. She lay on the floor, as the sorrow washed over her. 

Catelyn knelt down next to her, smoothing her hair.

“Sansa,” she said, her voice as soft as a kiss. She wrapped her arms around Sansa’s body, shielding it with her own.

“I will stay here. I will.” She said softly into Sansa’s ear. “I will stay here. I will stay here with Bran. I will stay here with Rickon. But what will you do? Will you marry this monster?”

“I hope not.” Sansa said. As she looked into her mother’s deep blue eyes, it felt like she was looking into a mirror. “I am hoping that we can change the future that I saw.”

“What have you seen?” Catelyn asked, as she held her in her arms.

Sansa placed her ear to her mother’s chest, and listened to her heart beating. “Some of the things that I’ve seen have happened, like Bran falling.” Sansa let herself be held like a baby.

“Sansa. You should stay here.” Her mother said suddenly.

“I want to. But it will insult the King,” she paused, “and more importantly the Queen.”

“I don’t like that woman.” Her mother said.

“Nor do I. But it will do us well _ not _ to make an enemy of her.” Sansa inhaled deeply before continuing, “Bran will wake.” She paused. “I know it seems dire right now, but he will.”

Her mother squeezed her tightly,“I want to believe that.”

Sansa took a deep breath, before saying “He will wake up mother. He will.” She sat up, and squeezed her mother in a tight embrace. 

As she stood to leave, she turned around to look at her mother and brother one last time. She didn’t know when she would see them again. Tomorrow would be a new day, and soon she would be in a strange place, with strange people. She remembered what her father always said when she and Arya would fight with each other, they were blood, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. She would keep her family close, she told herself. “This time will be different.” 

***

The Kingsroad

Sansa walked through the throngs of people. The party had swelled as they travelled along the Kingsroad. An honor guard had come out to meet them. This was as it had been before. The Queen, ever so gracious, had asked that the Prince entertain Sansa for the day. Sansa remembered how excited she had been the first time that she had gotten to spend the day alone with the prince. She had hardly been able to contain her excitement. She was to be alone with her _ beloved _ Joffrey. Now, as the time came again, she had spent a lot of time during the ride South avoiding his advances. She was cordial. She was sweet. She was ladylike. She hid herself behind a wall of courtesy. 

Today was the day that, in her former life, she had lost Lady at the Trident. She remembered keenly the sadness in her father’s eyes as he chose to do the horrid task himself. She had looked at her father with hate. Now she understood. He had done the honorable thing. She remembered with shame how she had been frightened of The Hound, and of Ilyn Payne. She had walked through the crowd of unfamiliar faces, staring at the splendor of the armor. She had been unsure of herself and terrified of what other people thought of her. She had been ashamed as the Lannister men stared at her direwolf, and as the entire camp seemed to quake in fear at her. She had been so frightened by Ser Ilyn Payne that she had shivered at the sight of him. His eyes had seemed to stare through her. He was a frightening man. He had stood before her a silent omen of death, a death that she did not know awaited. The Prince---the prince had seemed then very gallant. He had taken her hand into his own, and he had stood above her beautiful and golden, his hair a golden halo. Today, she found herself walking through the throngs of people as Lady padded along softly beside her, fearless, and with her head held high. She was not afraid. The shocked reactions of the knights and squires as they saw her direwolf gave her no pause, and caused her no anxiety. They should be afraid. She welcomed their fear. She walked with clear eyes and with her head high as she saw the men in their shining armour, and the great hulking wheelhouse ahead of her, and she made her way towards a piece of quiet woods away from the chattering mouths of strangers. 

As she walked, towards the caravan she saw the King’s brother, Lord Renly. He was tall, and beautiful and strapping and handsome. His hair was as black as the night sky, and his eyes a shimmering blue. He was wearing a green cloak, and beautiful gilded armor emblazoned with the sigil of the royal house. He walked towards her with laughing eyes, looking with curiosity at Lady as he approached.

“Is that a direwolf?” He asked, his voice full of mirth. 

Sansa smiled up at him, “This is Lady.” Lady whimpered softly and watched him back with the same curiosity. She sat on her haunches at Sansa’s feet. 

“A direwolf? Surely you don’t intend to bring her to King’s landing?” His eyes were smiling.

“I do. I dare anyone to stop me.” Sansa had a challenge in her voice. “The direwolf is the sigil of my house.” She pet lady on her ears in the way that she liked, and the direwolf lapped at her hand gently.

Renly smiled. Behind his shoulders, Sansa saw the prince approaching. 

“What are you saying to my lady?” He asked his uncle with barely veiled contempt. 

“I was admiring her pet,” the young Baratheon Lord responded. He was one of the most handsome men that Sansa had ever seen, but he seemed to never take anything seriously.

Joffrey reached out to put a hand on Sansa’s sleeve. He looked into her eyes, “What would you like to do today my lady?”

“We can go riding.” She said. 

Joffrey eyed Lady warily. “That _ thing _ will scare the horses.” 

“She’s very well behaved.” Sansa supplied. 

Joffrey chewed on his bottom lip. He was going to try to convince her to leave her wolf behind, she saw now. The last time that she went on an outing with the prince, her wolf had paid the price. 

“My prince,” she said sweetly, “perhaps we might take a stroll?” She placed her hand gently on his, and he looked at her then, considering it. 

“If you wish.” He said, resignedly.

The prince took her arm in his, and then they went walking. He could be pleasant when he wanted to. They passed through a holdfast and stopped at a small inn. The prince ordered the innkeep to serve them and they dined on roasted quail drowned in butter and topped with roasted onions. Sansa drank more wine than she had ever had at any feast. The prince talked animatedly, and showed her his sword, “Lion’s tooth.” They walked through a pretty bit of woods. The ground was covered with moss, green grass and bright purple flowers. The sky was bright and clear with large white clouds overhead. There were birds warbling in the trees overhead, and the air was crisp and cool. The sun was shining high over the Trident, and for a moment she could almost forget who she was with. 

As she looked into the prince’s eyes, she saw for the first time how small and frail he was. He was a child. _ She was a woman. _ She knew now, more than she ever had the first time that she had spent those few moments alone with him, she was not afraid of him. He would not make her miserable anymore. She was in control. _ She would be in control. _

They walked back towards the royal caravan arm in arm. He spoke, and she pretended to listen. But the words passed over her like water. She only thought of the past. She had changed something. She had used her courtesy, and her sweetness to occupy the prince. As she walked with him, she could see Arya, and Mycah, the butcher’s boy. They were walking back now as well, Nymeria following at Arya’s feet. Mycah would live. Lady would live. The pack survives.


	9. From the Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa arrives in King's Landing. Tyrion prepares to journey South.

> "In order to rise from its own ashes, a Phoenix first must burn."
> 
> — Octavia E. Butler
> 
> * * *

##  **From the Ash **

####  King’s Landing 

You could smell the city before you reached the gates. Sansa sat silently next to her sister within the great groaning wheelhouse as it lurched to a stop outside of the massive city gates. They held each other’s hands tightly as they exchanged glances. Sansa could feel her heart threatening to hammer its way outside of her chest. She had not imagined how much the sight of the great towering castle would affect her, but it became clearer as her eyes went towards the looming figure of the Red Keep that sat atop Aegon’s High Hill and her body betrayed her. As she took in the majesty of the red stone, she began to feel a pain in her chest. She gripped her sister’s hand tightly as they passed through the Dragon’s gate, and she saw the white cloaks of the Kingsguard and the gold cloaks of the City Watch surround their procession. Her eyes traced the outlines of the ornate dragons that adorned the huge gate and her breath quickened. She closed her eyes and tried to still the queasy feeling that churned within the pit of her stomach. With closed eyes, she said a silent prayer to the Warrior for strength. 

“Sansa,” her sister whispered. Cersei’s eyes darted towards them. Sansa could not answer. She dared not. The Queen was within earshot, and in response to Arya’s whisper, she simply squeezed her sister’s hand tighter. Arya seemed to understand. If she didn’t, she understood enough to save their conversation for the quiet of their rooms. 

The Red Keep loomed high above them large and imposing. The caravan continued through the winding streets, and Sansa thought that the red stone roofs began to take on the crimson hue of blood in the sunlight. The Queen, Sansa knew, was silently watching her and her sister’s every stolen glance. Cersei was still being kind, and gentle, but behind the exterior mask of courtesy Sansa could sense a naked calculation. What the Queen was calculating, Sansa was not yet sure. When the wheelhouse reached a creaky stop, she released her sister’s hand, and tucked both of her own hands into the soft grey cloak that she wore. She wrapped the cloak tightly around her body, and it seemed to comfort her. 

The sun went down as they progressed through their journey. When they descended from the wheelhouse, and started their approach towards the castle, it was full dark. They walked through the torchlit city streets, and through the King’s Gate. The Red Keep glowed beneath the flames of the torches lining the walls like blood. Sansa walked through the labyrinthine corridors and made her way towards the rooms where she would be staying. As her feet carried her towards her bedchamber the memories that she had tried desperately to suppress began to oppress her thoughts. 

Servants filed in and out of her bedchamber. As she watched them unload the many trunks and parcels that they had brought south, the reality of the situation became overwhelming. 

“Sansa,” her father called out to her from the doorway. The distress must have shown on her face, she thought. She turned to face him. 

“Yes, father?” She tried to add an air of cheeriness to her voice, she hoped rather than felt that she was successful. 

He walked towards her, and put a strong arm on her shoulder, “You’re shaking.” 

“It’s nothing, father. I’m very tired. It’s been a long journey,” she said. His grey eyes held questions that he seemed unsure that he wanted the answers to. 

The room was comfortable. Once finally alone, Sansa stripped off her cloak. The room was just as she remembered it. There was a roaring fire in the hearth. The crackling of the fire was soothing. She walked over towards the featherbed, feeling the warmth from the hearth as it melted away the chill in her body. She hadn’t been comfortable in a long time. The room smelled of flowers. The servants had set out fresh flowers for her in the vases of her bedchamber. Even with the beauty and splendor that surrounded her, she was ill at ease. She needed to quiet her mind. She hoped that sleep would bring her some sense of solace. Though she had been plagued by nightmares, her body was tired, and she knew that it needed some relief. She stripped herself down for bed, climbed in and willed herself to sleep.

***

####  The Wall 

“Thieves, killers and rapers. _ The noble Night’s Watch,” _ Tyrion thought to himself as he watched the men gather in the hall. Dinner was a solemn affair. There were not many fresh vegetables, but the cook had prepared a selection of hearty winter root vegetables. There were some golden brown and roasted turnips that were quite delicious. There was no meat, but the bounty of the sea was laid out on the table before him. The fish and freshly caught crabs were fresh and tasty. They had tried to lay a good table. During dinner, he sat to speak with the Old Bear, Commander Mormont. The men of the Watch, such as they were, would escort him as far as Winterfell. Tyrion had requested that Jon Snow be allowed to accompany him, so that he might be able to see his brother, Bran who was probably still on his sickbed. Mormont had decided against it, fearing that it would be too much of a temptation. On the morrow, Tyrion would bid his goodbyes to the boy. Mormont offered him three strong swords to escort him back towards the ancient keep. The comforts of Winterfell were something to look forward to. 

“Lord Tyrion,” the Old Bear took a sip of ale. The ale, Tyrion thought, tasted not much better than piss. But it was better than nothing.

‘As you can see,” Mormont said, “the watch has seen better days.”

Tyrion thought that this might be an understatement. He had seen first hand the neglect and the needs of the watch. They truly believed that they were doing something noble. It would have been funny had it not all seemed so sad. They had given their lives over to the bone numbing cold of this frozen wasteland. They had given up the pleasures of life--noble men like the Lord Commander swore vows to guard this realm, from what? Tyrion found it ridiculous. The wall was probably one of the most useless things ever created by man he wagered.

“You will leave soon.” Mormont said, stabbing a piece of turnip on his plate with gusto. 

“Yes. My brother, Jaime, might think you’ve convinced me to take the black,” Tyrion replied with a smirk. “I must.”

“You’re cunning.” Mormont said, “You see things that others may not. Surely you see what the men of the watch have become. We could use more men like you”

“Men like me,” Tyrion repeated, _ Yes, drunken lechers are in short supply, _he thought bitterly, “I’ll scour the Seven for every dwarf and send them to you.” He smiled widely. 

The fish had only been caught that day. It was fresh and succulent.

“Lord Lannister, all we get sent now are thieves, rapers and untested boys. Few annointed knights take the black. We are in need of good, trained men. I won’t be able to lead forever.”

Tyrion nodded. This was true. Many of the men that made up the ranks of the Watch now had only joined under threats of violence or by lack of choice. Many times it was the only choice, “take the black” or see their heads on spikes. Tyrion grabbed a crab claw and began to crack into it. 

“Thank you for sparing some of your men to accompany me South to Winterfell. I hope that I can repay the debt.”

“You can. The Watch has become an army of old men and ill prepared boys. We’re barely staying alive up here. The wildlings are reporting sights of strange things beyond the wall. We’ve lost men. I’ve just sent Benjen Stark to look for a ranger lost during his first ranging. He went with good men--experienced men. More and more we are losing men beyond the wall. Our numbers are dwindling.”

“What would you have me do?” Tyrion asked earnestly.

“The cold is encroaching. I’ve never felt cold like this. I”ve been a man of the Watch for a long time. The days are getting shorter. This is the longest summer in living history. It is coming to an end. With it...with it things that stalk the cold. I’ve seen things--dark things---troubling dreams.”

“Dreams?” Tyrion could tell that the Commander was quite serious. But dreams are nothing more than just that. 

“I barely sleep. The numbers of people running. People are running my lord.” The Old Bear’s eyes seemed far away. “They are running _ from _something.”

“What am I to do?” Tyrion could sense the desperation. He only needed to know what, what exactly it was that the Lord Commander expected of him.

“The Night’s Watch is to guard the realms of men. Tell the king. Tell him. Tell him. Winter is coming. When the Long Night comes with it, only the Night’s Watch stands between the realms of men and the darkness. Gods help us.”

“I will do what I can.” He would. Tyrion Lannister was as good as his word. _ A Lannister always pays his debts. _


	10. Through the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion arrives in Winterfell.

> “You can only come to the morning through the shadows.”
> 
> ― J.R.R. Tolkien
> 
> * * *

# Through the Shadows

The North was vast. They passed through misty pine-covered forests and snow capped mountain ranges, stopping to feed and water their horses along the way. As they progressed along their journey the roads that had been flinty, grey, and rugged began to show specks of green, until a green grassy expanse was laid out before their eyes, speckled with a light dusting of soft snow. The journey back South had been much the same as the journey north. The trek from the Wall greeted them with gusts of wind that were bitterly cold but the cold lessened as they travelled, and Tyrion smiled as during the journey he watched the snowy plain be overtaken by green grasses. He welcomed what little warmth there was to be had. Truthfully, the Wall had been miserable. The cold in Castle Black had been biting and harsh. Tyrion had felt it through to his bones. He looked forward to the prospect of a warm fire, and a stiff drink within the walls of Winterfell. He looked ahead with even more relish to the promise of warm arms and warm breasts and a soft woman to warm his bed in the town just outside Winterfell's gates. "These northern whores are in for a treat," he thought to himself. Gods knows, he could use a woman. 

Two men of the watch had been sent by the Lord Commander to accompany him as far as Winterell. Yoren and another quiet sullen man in black rags by the name of Cley had journeyed with him thus far. Their conversation had been lively enough. Yoren was on his way even further south, as far as King’s Landing. The men would part ways with him at Winterfell. His own two men were to accompany him on the rest of his journey. As the small party approached the gates of the ancient keep, Tyrion saw that the morning sun had not yet crept over the battlements. The white flags above them whipped in the wind making the grey direwolves dance against the blue skies above their heads. 

The guardsmen granted them admittance. Tyrion’s Night’s Watch companions left him at the gates, and he rode through the North gate with his own men flanking him at either side. Servants helped him down from his horse and with his parcels. He made his way past the guards at the North gate and into the courtyard. He was greeted by the young Lord of the Keep, Robb Stark, and his Lady Mother, Catelyn Stark. Behind them, he saw his niece Myrcella. He marvelled at how much she resembled his sister. Her hair was a cascade of golden curls, and as she smiled at him, she had all of her sister’s beauty, but none of the cold calculation in her emerald eyes. There was a sweetness in her countenance. The Starks seemed to be treating her well. He was to dine with the Lord and Lady of the House tonight, and his lovely niece in the Great Hall. 

The Little Lord bundled himself up in his thick furs and walked towards the Guest Houses. He was to be hosted in the Guest House, where he stayed during his previous visit. The room was comfortable and well appointed. As a thoughtful touch, Lady Stark had a footstool placed near the feather bed that sat at the center of the room. A roaring fire burned in the hearth. The servants brought up his parcels, and he had them draw him a steaming hot bath. 

Once a hot bath was drawn for him, he scrubbed himself until the water was cool, his skin was pink and the water turned a dull grey. He marvelled at the amount of dirt and grime that continued to slough off of him like scales off of a snake. His body ached from the long ride on horseback, and he was loathe to leave the tub, but he knew that the courtesies of the day awaited him. When he was done bathing, he picked out something from his travelling wardrobe. He shaved his beard and prepared himself for dinner. During his time at the Wall, he had drawn up some plans for a special saddle for Bran Stark. He was to visit the lad before departing for Casterly Rock.

The Great Hall was much less lively than it had been during Robert’s visit. They must have heard that he liked wine, because the table was well stocked. There were loaves of hot crusty bread on the tables as well, and Tyrion could smell the yeasty scent of fresh bread throughout the hall as he walked towards the High table. Tonight they feasted on chickens roasted over the fire and turnips soaked in butter. There was a sweet pumpkin soup to begin the meal, and he tucked into it with great enthusiasm. In his satchel, he held the plans for Bran’s saddle. The Lady of the house sat next to him on one side, and the Lord of the House on the other, with Myrcella at his side. They seemed to still be getting on quite well. The Lady of the House was strikingly beautiful. She had fair skin, and long, thick auburn hair. Her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut a man and the man would thank her for the favor. Her daughter Sansa, had much of her look. He found himself seeing echoes of the daughter in the mother’s eyes. At times he thought he saw something or someone looking back at him as he stared into the deep blue of her eyes. 

“My Lord, how do you find your chambers?” She asked him.

“Exceedingly comfortable. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.” Catelyn watched him curiously, waiting for him to speak again. He rifled through his satchel, and pulled out the rolled up parcel of plans for Bran’s saddle, and presented them to her.

“I have something for young Bran Stark. I hear he is still on his sickbed.”

Catelyn took the plans from him, eyeing them with slight suspicion. “This is very kind. Thank you. Bran has awakened. He is still abed in his sickroom.”

Tyrion nodded towards the plans that she held in her hand, “This is a special saddle. It is similar to the one that I use, due to my--stature. It is of my own design. It allows me to sit a horse, and keeps me from falling off it.”

Catelyn nodded, giving him a slight smile. “You’ve done my son a great kindness. Thank you.”

Tyrion stabbed into a turnip, and chewed it as he watched the Lady Stark going over the plans in her hand. She called over Maester Luwin. She was now speaking with him about the plans. 

“Lady Stark, I would like to pay my respects to young Bran before I depart.”

“That is exceedingly kind, my Lord. Where will you be travelling to next?”

“The Westerlands, more likely than not.”

“We are to be family soon.” She began. 

“Yes. Any news from King’s Landing?” He took a sip of wine to punctuate the silence.

“Some. Did you by chance take a stroll through the Godswood when last you were in Winterfell.” 

The Godswood had always felt like an alien space to Tyrion. The ancient trees seemed to watch him and the smell of the earth seemed to scream all the way through his blood, “you don’t belong here.” The woods with their ancient secrets seemed to be watching him, an intruder. “No. I didn’t have that pleasure.” No. But he sensed more than one question in Lady Catelyn’s words.

“I would like to see it.” He added. 

Lady Catelyn took a small sip of her wine. “Will you walk with me?” 

“I would be delighted,” this was true. He would be delighted. What could Catelyn Stark have to say to him that required such delicate preparation? 

“Sansa seems to hold you in high esteem.”

At this, the little Lord raised an eyebrow. “I am glad to know that someone does.” 

He saw a small smile forming at the corners of the Lady Stark’s mouth. 

*******

The Godswood at Winterfell was old, ancient in fact. There were trees in that wood that had stood for tens of thousands of years. The earth was moist and dotted with green tufts of moss. The pine trees rose up towards the sky, watching over the inhabitants of the castle like silent guardians. 

Tyrion Lannister stood silently in the Godswood. He could smell the damp leaves, and grass, and the old earth calling him forwards, towards the center of the wood. At the center of the Godswood, there stood a huge tree, possibly one of the largest that Tyrion Lannister had ever seen. The Heart Tree, the symbolic representation of the Old Gods these strange Northmen worshipped, was large and white. The face carved into its surface was odd and unsettling. The eyes seemed to be watching him. The red leaves that framed the face of the tree looked like a blaze of flame against the dark sky. 

“_ I don’t belong here. _” Tyrion thought to himself, as he walked towards the large, old tree. Behind the tree was a large flat stone. Tyrion’s legs felt sore and stiff and he limped over towards the large stone, seeking to steady himself on it. As he sat on the large stone, he reached out to touch the weirwood tree. And then he felt his eyes begin to close shut. 

> _ Tyrion Lannister flies over King’s Landing like a hawk. Below him, an Elephant runs through the streets. It’s eyes are huge emeralds, and each time a commoner is trampled beneath its feet a gold coin falls from its eyes. The elephant has cornered a wolf. A wolf with fur the color of flames runs through a golden castle pursued by a monster. The monster has two legs like a man, but the feet of a stag and the face of a lion. The creature stands over the red wolf, lashing it with a whip. Outside the castle, a dragon with scales made of pearls and eyes the color of amethyst burns an albino lion, as it screams for mercy. No mercy comes. _
> 
> _ When he lands, he is himself again. Tyrion can feel the flames. He can hear his flesh sizzling. He looks behind him and the wide grassy field outside Winterfell is spread out before him. In the distance, Sansa Stark watches him, and with tears in her eyes. “Why,” he thinks, “would Sansa Stark mourn me?” _
> 
> _ As he feels the flames subside, he sees himself within the walls of the Red Keep. The Walls of the Red Keep are bleeding. Everywhere that the blood drops, a rose grows through the stone. The blood seeps through the cracks and into the roots of the flower. In a chapel, he sees himself placing a cloak of protection around the shoulders of his bride. His bride-to-be looks at him, It is Sansa Stark. He is being wed to Sansa Stark. He sees himself holding out his hand to her as she lays in a crumpled heap crying on the ground. Her dress has been ripped from her body, and her wounds look fresh and red. She looks up at him. From his current position, he is stood above her, with his hand extended. She takes his hand, and her eyes--her eyes look through him as if he is a phantom. _
> 
> _ They were as blue as the waters of the Sunset Sea. _
> 
> _ “Tyrion Remember.” _
> 
> _ “I don’t understand!” He cried out. He was standing alone in the godswood now. The heart tree had Sansa Stark’s face. He reached out to touch the face, and soon the tree itself became flesh. Before him, stood Sansa Stark. She knelt down to him, staring into his face, as if looking for some answers that he was sure that he could not give her. _
> 
> _ “You must go to to the capital,” Sansa said. She ran one hand absently through the curls that adorned his head, and looked at him thoughtfully. “You are needed in the capital.” She looked at him one more time, and then she began to fade away. Soon, the vision of her was like a memory. It was nothing more than the scent of lemons on the night air. _

  
  


Catelyn Stark’s voice rang through the courtyard, “Robb, call for Maester Luwin, Lord Tyrion has taken ill.” 


	11. A Religion of Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter. But it is a bridge that is needed.

“The more powerful and original a mind,

the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude.”

― Aldous Huxley

* * *

# Chapter 11: A Religion of Solitude

Tyrion Lannister was not a superstitious man, nor was he religious. From what he had seen of the Gods they were cruel. The Gods, he knew, offered many people comfort, and a means to understand the cruelty of the world that they lived in. He had no use for them. He had not always been this way. As a babe he had been blessed in the light of the seven. Growing up, knowing that he would never be a knight, like his brother, he had studied the holy books, hoping to one day become High Septon. He had dreamt of the priesthood and committed his mind and his study to this dream. When he was thirteen, all of that changed. He discovered the joys of the flesh. Once he did that, there was no going back. He would rather spend his life enjoying those pleasures than chasing after some dream of an afterlife. For all that he knew when he left this world, there would be nothing. He imagined a great black void of nothingness would be all that greeted him once he left this life behind. So, he drank, and he whored, and he enjoyed all of the delights that this world held. He was of this world. He was going to enjoy what joys the world held for him, and forgo the world of superstition. The Old Gods, the primordial, ancient gods of nature that the Northmen worshipped were alien to him. But something had happened to him in the Godswood at Winterfell. Something that he had never experienced before. 

The Lady of Winterfell had shown him many courtesies. She had found him sprawled out on the forest floor beneath the weirwood tree. He had been, since that day, confined to his bed within the guest rooms. The Maester, Luwin, had given him milk of the poppy to ease the pain in his head and to help him sleep. His sleep had been filled with terrifying dreams of dragonfire, and a beautiful Queen with eyes the color of amethysts. He had seen himself wearing a silver pin, reminiscent of the one that his father wore as Hand of the King. Sometimes, he saw other things. Creatures made of ice and cold that stalked the halls of Winterfell. In one of his dreams he saw himself in the crypts of Winterfell. He had never been to the crypts of Winterfell. Somehow, without ever seeing them, he knew that that was where he was. The bones of the long dead Starks began to burst forth from the crypts, and he crouched behind an ornate stone effigy with Lady Sansa. He told her that they should have stayed married. _ Stayed. Married. _ She looked into his eyes and said to him, with the voice of a woman grown, “You were the best of them.” He had seen that look in her eyes before, in the Great Hall at Winterfell. She had asked him, playfully, about his belief in magic. 

Tyrion had slept off and on for days under the effects of milk of the poppy. Each dream that he had, during this medicated sleep, was stranger than the last. On the seventh day of his confinement in his room, the Lady of the House came to see him.

Catelyn Stark came into the room, quiet, ethereal, and pulled a chair close to his bed.

“My Lord, it is good to see that you’ve awakened. How is your head?” She inquired.

“It’s seen better days,” he said, and he rubbed the tender spot near his temple where his soft flesh had hit the edge of the hard rock in the Godswood.

“I have something for you.” She said. She thrust her hand out towards him, and in it, she held a letter. The parchment felt strange in his hands. For a long time, he just stared at it. It was sealed with the direwolf sigil of her house. 

“My Lady,” he began, “is it...news from the capital?”

She shook her head, “It is a letter-- from my daughter, Sansa. She said to deliver it to your hands only. “ 

He turned the letter over in his hands. His mind burned with curiosity.

“She’s told me...many strange things. She seems to...put some trust in you for some reason.”

“I’ve barely spoken with her.” He supplied.

“Be that as it may. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ask away my Lady. I only hope that I will not disappoint you.” He said, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

“I would ask that you go to the capitol. I would ask that you watch over my daughters. Arya is--willful. Sansa is delicate. I…” She looked down at her hands then, fidgeting with them, and unsure of her next words.

“I am no knight, my Lady. But, this, I pledge on my honor. King’s Landing is a dangerous place.” He replied. 

She nodded quietly, and arose from the chair. Soon she disappeared from the room, leaving Tyrion alone with his thoughts, and with his letter.

Tyrion’s fingers traced the outline of the direwolf on the white wax. He slid a stubby finger beneath the gap in the seal and broke it, revealing an elegant script belonging to the young Lady Stark.

He sat up in bed to read.

> _ Lord Tyrion Lannister, of Casterly Rock _
> 
> _ My Lord, should this letter find your hands, you should be comfortably within the walls of Winterfell. My Lady mother has promised you safe lodging and safe passage. Your sister has been very kind here in the capitol. _
> 
> _ The King has taken to boar hunting most days. My betrothed approaches his nameday and you would be much welcomed for his nameday celebration. I suspect that he would be enriched by your presence. My Lord father has been occupied greatly by the intrigues of the Southron court. The Spider and the Mockingbird offer their council. They do not share your wit or wisdom. Your council is much needed here. My Lord father wishes to speak with you about a position at court. We have a greater need of sharp minds than sharp swords at present. _
> 
> _ When last we spoke, you scoffed about the existence of magic. Within the Godswood, you will find the answers that you seek. I am sure that you will find neither grumkins or snarks. There are worse things to be afraid of than the fantasies of a wet nurse-- creatures made of cold and ice that stalk the halls in search of the living. _
> 
> _ Travel careful. Travel light. _
> 
> _ Yours, _
> 
> _ Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell _

  
_ “Yours.” _ He reread the words as if not fully comprehending them. Yes, _ this letter would go into the fire. _ His sweet sister must never see such a letter. As he folded up the parchment, his head swam with questions. What did it mean? Did he want to find out? _ A position on the council? _


	12. Where The Old Gods Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion prepares to journey South. Sansa speaks with her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My updates have been sporadic. I've been suffering from health issues, and my mom has cancer. So...that is to say that my updates may continue to be sporadic. I hope to work on this story more as I have the time.

> # Chapter 12: Where The Old Gods Rule
> 
> * * *

_“This was where the old gods ruled, the nameless gods of the trees and the wolves and the snows.”_

_“A Storm of Swords,” George R. R. Martin_

Winterfell 

The dark woods were filled with the sound of tinkling streams. The grass was soft and wet. The tall redwood and ironwood trees stood proud and ancient beneath a dappling of shadow and sun. The deeper you got into the wood, the wilder it felt. Tyrion Lannister walked softly through the dense thicket of drying grey-green pine needles that lay on the damp ground. The oldness of the wood, the smell of it was dark, and primal. The air was filled with the fragrant scent of flowers, and the air was cool against his face. The bruise on his face felt the sting of it. The last time that he had walked these woods, he had been overcome by something. Now, he walked through the green and gold moss, and tangled roots and towards the silence at the center of the wood where the face of the heart tree seemed to beckon to him. His heart thudded heavily as he made his way towards the tree. The dense canopy of branches overhead sheltered him from the sun, and he made his way steadily to the heart tree, kneeling before it. He was not a superstitious man. He was far from it. But as he prepared for his journey South, he took comfort in any gods who would have him. His sister would not be happy to see him in the capital. Miraculously, he had been summoned there by the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark. Not long after reading the letter sent to him by the young Lady Stark, another raven arrived. Whatever the Gods held for him, it seemed that he was needed in the South. For some reason, the Starks were placing a faith in him that his family had not. 

As he knelt on the damp ground, he closed his eyes, and said a prayer to the Old gods. How do you pray to these gods, he had labored over it as he sat in his chambers. This was the land of the First Men. The blood of the First Men still flowed in these Northmen. Some of their customs were strange and foreign to him. As he looked across the pool of cool black water in the Godswood where the ancient tree stood, he peered into the eyes that watched him. The bark of the tree was as white as sun bleached bones in the dappled sunlight, and the eyes were carved deeply into the thick trunk as red as dried blood, and they seemed to be watching him. 

With a deep inhale of breath, he said a prayer behind closed eyelids, and in answer he heard the forest. The forest came alive. The birds sang sweetly overhead and the wind whispered through the trees, with a rustling of leaves. 

There was something sacred in this place, he thought. The forest felt alive. It was alive. As he opened his eyes, he saw the bright blue eyes of Sansa Stark looking into his own. He blinked. “No. That can’t be,” he said silently in his mind. As he blinked his eyes, the deeply carved eyes of the heart tree came back into view. 

  
  


***

King’s Landing 

The air was heavy with the scent of smoke. Sansa tossed the rolled piece of parchment that she clutched in her palm into the fire. Three fat candles were lit on the heavy wooden desk, and they cast a flickering orange glow against the walls of the Tower of the Hand. Lord Eddard Stark sat in a high backed chair, behind the desk, and the whole of it was scattered with scrolls of yellowing parchment. Sansa watched him warily. He was consumed with the plans for the “Tourney of the Hand.” It was a great expense, and the stress of the city was doing him no favors. Lines of worry etched themselves into his face. The King was a lot to handle. He was not used to hearing the word “No.” He spent money with the same appetite with which he consumed everything else, greedily. Her father was never one for extravagance, but he could not prevail upon King Robert to be more prudent, regardless of their friendship. The King was too used to getting his own way. To make matters worse, he was surrounded by sycophants, chief among them, Littlefinger.

Littlefinger was content to bankrupt the kingdom, if that meant getting what he wanted. The coffers of the Kingdom were merely a tool for his social climbing. He thrived on creating chaos, and what better way than to bankrupt the kingdom while he advanced his own interests, and fattened his pockets in the process. The tournament would keep the whorehouses full. The tournament would keep the crown indebted to the Lannisters, which only emboldened them more. The money that Littlefinger made from the tourney would help him to advance his plans to take the Vale. He was going to make money hand over fist. Sansa knew that he owned one of the most popular whorehouses in the city. Knights were to come from all over the realm to joust and feast in honor of her father’s appointment as Hand of the King. They would patronize Littlefinger’s brothels. She watched as her father grew sullen and anxious as their days in King’s Landing went by. He was being suffocated by the requests that came at him from every angle. He looked up at her now his grey eyes reminding her of the sky after a storm. 

“The mockingbirds sing sweetly. They long to fly.” She smiled at him, hoping he got her meaning. She pulled a chair closer to the desk and positioned it so that it faced him.

He smiled back at her, and there was a small hint of merriment in his eyes, though his mind seemed weary and far away. 

“You’ve said as much.” He motioned for her to sit.

“Have you thought about what I’ve asked of you?” Sansa smoothed her skirts idly with her hands. She had promised something that she could not guarantee. She knew that her father was still mulling over her request. 

“I have. Why do you trust this man?” Her father leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully.

“He was my husband.” _ In name only _ she should add, but she didn’t. Omission isn’t lying, she justified to herself. Having made up her mind that this was the case, she punctuated her statement with silence before adding. “He was always good to me.” 

Her father was silent. He moved neither his body or his lips for several minutes. He watched her intently until she became uncomfortable, and willed herself to speak. 

“He’s good with figures.” She said, grasping at something to break through the awkwardness.

Her father stood from his desk, walked over to a small table that sat by her side, and poured two glasses of wine. He poured one for himself and one for Sansa.

“I thought I was only allowed wine at feasts,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

He drank down the entire glass of wine in what looked like one sip, and poured himself another. 

“Father?” she said, her voice wavering slightly. She hadn’t known how he might react.

“I’ll do as you ask.” He drank the entire glass of wine. He poured another. Eventually he looked at her and he asked, incredulously, “How?”

“One day, I will tell you.” She said, in almost a whisper. She took a small sip of her wine.

“My betrothed approaches his nameday ceremony.” 

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Aye. He does.”

“Will there be a tourney?” She watched him carefully. 

He moved closer to her, placing his hand on her right shoulder. “Should there be a tourney?” 

“I had hoped that some friends from the North might come for the tourney.” She watched his face for recognition, and she was pleased to see that he understood her meaning.


	13. Clean Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa attends the tourney of the Hand.

# Clean Hands

“Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean.”

― A Storm of Swords, George R. R. Martin

Sansa 

Sansa dreamt of dragons. She dreamt of dragons hatching. When she woke in the morning she searched the skies for a comet. Time was moving forward and she felt the weight of it. She felt it in her skin, in her hair, and in the pit of her stomach. She felt the sinking feeling bury itself deep within her belly as her eyes searched the morning sky and she exhaled a deep breath as she watched the red comet streak across the grey blue sky above the castle walls. The dragons had hatched. She was convinced that she could _ feel _ something in the air. There was magic in the air. _ Magic. _ She could feel it as she padded softly around her room in her slippers, and as she studied her face in the mirror during her morning routines. She could feel it as she sat by the fire. There was something different in the air. As she prepared for the celebrations of the day, she prepared herself for a reckoning of some sort. The tourney of the Hand had been looming on the horizon for what seemed like ages. The King was still alive. But she knew it would not be for long. Joffrey’s name day loomed large in her thoughts too. She did everything that she could to stay in his good graces. She was kind. She was courteous. She deferred to him. _ She detested him. _ She would spend more time with him today than she cared to. She would be seated beside him at the high table for the feast. Her father had secured seats for her, Arya, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Pool to watch the tournament. He would not be seated with them. He would be seated with the King. She was relieved at this. She would be surrounded by those loyal to her house during the tournament. But the feast, the feast was another story.

As the betrothed of the crowned Prince, she would be seated with the royal family during the feast. As the Queen had insidiously padded every possible position in court with some Lannister or other, she would be surrounded by lions. The lions were restless. The stags were losing ground. Stannis had retreated to Dragonstone. Renly Baratheon had retreated to Storm’s End. The King had been confined to his chambers more lately. He had taken ill. Sansa suspected, but had no proof, that he was being slowly poisoned. Cersei wanted her son on the throne. King Robert made her miserable. The King;s physical condition had deteriorated over the course of several moons. Sansa had successfully convinced her father to send Littlefinger on a diplomatic mission to the Vale to broker a marriage between Young Robin Arryn and Shireen Baratheon. In his stead, Tyrion Lannister was to be Master of Coin. But Tyrion Lannister had not arrived. He had still not yet arrived in the capitol. Sansa was beginning to worry.

Sansa sat upon a plush cushioned chair, softly petting Lady’s fur and waiting. Soon her maidservant and ladies maids would be at the door. She felt Lady’s ear’s shift slightly beneath her fingertips. 

“Do you hear something girl?” She said in a sing-song voice. Lady stared up at her lovingly. _ Yes. _She had heard something. There was a flurry of activity throughout the caste corridors. Sansa could hear it too now. There were footsteps outside her door. She heard several voices chattering behind the thick wooden door. There was a knock.

“Yes,” she said.

“We’re here to prepare you for the tourney m’lady.”

“Yes. Come in.” she said. 

Her room became a flurry of activity as well. The four serving girls filled the tub high with steaming rose scented water. They scrubbed Sansa’s skin until she was as fresh and pink as a newborn babe. They trimmed her nails. They curled and brushed her auburn hair until it shone coppery in the sunlight. They pulled out a marbled platter filled with perfumes for her to choose from. She chose a fragrance with a hint of lemon, something bright, and sunny. 

Her father had ordered a new dress made for her, with her specifications. The seamstress came and dressed her in her new finery. The gown was silver and white with long and full skirts and a bodice that was fitted to her frame, but not so tight that she couldn’t comfortably breathe. She slipped her feet into the soft, grey leather slippers that she had chosen, and when she was finally done, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. 

The seamstress beamed behind her. “You look lovely m’lady.” 

_ She did. _

As she walked through the corridor, she held her head high, and Lady padded softly beside her. 

***

Sansa rode to the Hand’s tourney in a litter trimmed with yellow silks. They rode out to the city walls, and she saw outstretched ahead of them a hundred raised pavilions. The small folks had come out in droves to watch the games. The air was charged and alive. This was the splendor and majesty that Sansa had always dreamed of as a girl. The knights paraded in their shining armor, the shouting of the crowd was loud and boisterous, and the banners flapped in the wind. Overhead, Sansa saw the comet continuing its trail across the sky in a blaze of red and orange. Sansa said a silent prayer as she looked into the sky above. _ I can change this. _She told herself. The King was still alive. Her father was still alive. She was still safe. Lady was safe in the kennels. Arya was by her side. She absently reached out and smoothed her sister’s hair away from her face. Arya looked at her surprised, but Sansa continued to look out into the crowd. She scanned the faces in the crowd, and she found her place and began to settle in for the day's events. Sansa was seated between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, and Arya sat to Septa Mordane’s left. Arya didn’t much care about the tourney. But Sansa wanted to keep her close. 

Across the pavilion, she saw her betrothed, Joffrey. He was wearing a crimson doublet, embroidered with lions and a cloth of gold with a high cape that framed his face. His mouth looked cruel. His eyes were grim and cold and his expression was haughty and vain. He surveyed the small folks below the raised dais with a look of disgust. _ I won’t marry him. I won’t. _Sansa thought. The crowd was murmuring excitedly as the men from the lists paraded by on magnificent coursers and stallions. The Hound stood beside the Prince, a detached expression on his scarred face. He was clothed in a plain brown doublet, with a green mantle, and his burned face looked angry in the sunlight. Behind them stood two knights of the Kingsguard, and further behind them, the King himself. He looked wan, and grey skinned. But he seated himself next to his Queen, and called for wine. 

Jaime Lannister took the field in a suit of golden armor donned with a lion-headed gilded helm, with a golden sword in hand, the snow white cloak of the King’s Guard billowing behind him. Sansa watched as the heroes rode forward each more elaborately adorned than the last. There were hedge knights, and free riders too, and young untested squires. Jeyne tittered next to her as she watched Ser Beric Dondarion rush forward with his flaming sword. All of this had been marvelous to her the first time that she had seen it. She had thought the men of Winterfell to be ill fitted and clothed in rags by comparison. Jory was clothed simply. He wore a dull blue-grey plate armour without any ornament, and around his shoulders his thin, grey cloak hung sad and threadbare. 

The jousting went on for what seemed like ages. Jeyne and Arya cried out as the warhorses pounded down the lists. Sansa was made of stronger stuff. Jeyne covered her eyes like a frightened child whenever a man fell. But Sansa sat straight, her spine like dragonsteel. She watched calculatingly. Septa Mordane noted her composure. The Clegane brothers seemed unstoppable and ferocious. Ser Gregor killed a man, a young knight from the Vale. He fell dead and bloody at Sansa’s feet. She looked down at his face. Her eyes studied the eyes of the dying knight as he fell before her. She saw the light leave his eyes. Septa Mordane clutched her hand. But she simply watched. Beside her Jeyne wept uncontrollably. The Septa took her away, off to the side to help her regain her composure. Sansa knew that she should be crying too. But she could not. She had seen too much. She watched as a small boy came to shovel dirt on the spot where the knight had fallen, to cover up the blood. It would be as if he never existed. It would be as if it had never happened. 

The tournament continued. The King drank, and laughed, and for a moment, almost seemed like his old self. The Queen soon tired of the proceedings, and she and her ladies in waiting made their way back to the Red Keep. Ser Loras was performing admirably in the tourney. He had unhorsed several knights over the course of the day. He wore an intricately enameled armor covered in roses, and he looked like a song that had come to life. As he rode past Sansa, he presented her with a single red rose. Though he smiled at her, she noticed that his eyes were not on her, but on the person who sat behind her, a young man with dark hair, and smiling green eyes that reminded her of the King’s brother, Lord Renly. _ The rumors were true. _ She mused. She took the rose and inhaled the fragrance deeply, smiling down at him. His hair was a mass of brown curls, and his eyes, framed by lush lashes. He was exquisite. She remembered how enamored she had been of him that first time at the tourney. 

Joffrey watched the exchange between them from across the pavilion. She could see a flash in his eyes as he whispered something to the Hound. The Knight of Flowers rode off, and as she looked up again, she watched Joffrey’s face for signs of anger. She watched as he eyed the Knight of Flowers with barely veiled contempt. Her own father sat next to the King, and he watched the Prince too. As Sansa and Ned looked to each other, their eyes met. Both watched as Joffrey left the royal box, the Hound following close behind him. As Sansa watched them leave, Joffrey looked back, catching her eye, and she flashed him her most glittering smile. The look that he returned chilled her blood. She had seen his eyes look like that before. She had been standing at the Sept of Baelor. She had begged for mercy. She would not beg again.


	14. Everyone Wants To Be Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has odd dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus. Between health issues in my family and the pandemic, it's been rough.

# Chapter 14: Everyone Wants To Be Loved

"Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”

“Everyone wants to be loved.”

— [ George R.R. Martin ](https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/346732.George_R_R_Martin) ( [ A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2) ](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10572.A_Clash_of_Kings))

  
  


_ Looming over Winterfell was the grey sky of winter. The air was bitingly cold against her cheeks. Huge billows of grey smoke steamed up from the fires lit below. The faces of the men huddled around the fires took on an eerie orange cast. Standing above the Winterfell courtyards, Sansa watched as the soldiers prepared to face the coming onslaught of the dead. She felt useless. Nothing had ever prepared her--nothing could ever prepare her for what was to come. She was to keep the women and children calm. Jon had made it sound completely reasonable. Daenerys and he were to fly overhead with the dragons and be their eyes as they prepared for the coming onslaught. They had a plan. “Everyone always has a plan,” she thought. _

_The snow fell in fat flakes covering the ground in a blanket of white. The air felt colder, meaner. Sansa wrapped her fur cloak tightly around her trying desperately to contain as much warmth as she could. Below, there were rows and rows of soldiers, men of Winterfell, and Knights of the Vale. Small pockets of wildling soldiers huddled around fires, speaking amongst themselves in hushed voices, and draped in thick furs. There was even a giant among the wildling host, and when he spoke, it felt like the castle walls rumbled. Sansa looked up into the darkening sky, watching overhead for her brother and the Targaryen queen. Soon, her eyes saw something black flitting in and out of the cloud cover, and a roar echoed through the sky. A huge puff of orange flame shot out into the darkening sky, and Sansa spied the black winged dragon overhead. He swooped and darted through the clouds above, disappearing into the darkness as if by magic. Dragon shadows passed overhead and the shadows seemed to cover the whole courtyard.. Her eyes followed the flickering bursts of flame through the dark sky. The flames seemed to be dancing, burning a trail of light out into the black sky overhead and Sansa’s eyes watched the small flickering flames as they fell from the sky, and came to rest below. She found herself entranced by the fire._

_ “Sansa,” Arya grabbed her arm. It seemed to shake her out of the reverie. _

_ “Get down to the crypt,” her sister’s voice insisted. The storm in Arya’s grey eyes was as dark as the night sky above. _

_ “I’m not abandoning my people…” _

_"Take this.” It was an order, not a request. A dragonglass dagger was thrust into her hand and Sansa felt the weight of it. It felt warm to the touch. It seemed to vibrate with the magic of the children of the forest. It was like holding fire in your hand. _

_ “I don’t know how to use it,” she heard herself say. _

_ “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” Her sister’s voice was tinged with a finality that chilled her blood more than the cold northern air ever could. _

_ She gripped the rough hewn dagger tightly in her hand, before quickly tucking it away within her skirts. The time for arguing was over. _

_ As she walked towards the crypts the world seemed to fall away before her eyes. As she journeyed into the crypts, the darkness began to give way to the warm glow of candlelight. _

_ The air smelled of lemons and roses. Her eyes struggled to acclimate themselves to the light emanating from the corner of the room ahead of her. She was in King’s Landing now. She recognized her chambers in the Red Keep. These were the same chambers that she slept in that first time in The Red Keep. At a small desk, she saw a man, sitting in an ornate chair of gilded lions. He was staring intently at a roll of parchment laid out on the desk before him. A mass of blond curls obscured his face and the flickering candlelight cast his shadow large against the wall behind him. She stepped carefully, quietly, trying not to disturb the man. Her feet felt heavy as if they were made of stone. _

_ As her slippered feet touched the ground, softly--silently--she sensed something, or someone behind her. She could feel fire. She could feel an oppressive heat creeping up the backs of her legs, almost like tongues of flame. She dared not look back. Flakes of snow fell against her face. _

_ “How can it be snowing inside,” she wondered aloud. The air was warm and wet with the fragrance of winter roses. She was in the glass gardens, at Winterfell. The air in the gardens was thick and hot. She wandered through the rows of vegetation. On all sides within the walls of the glass gardens there were fruits and vegetables, and flowers. The flowers were the most welcoming thing. They reminded her of her mother. _

_ “Sansa,” she heard a raspy voice say. She turned to see the bastard of Bolton standing behind her. His skin white and doughy, and his eyes sunken in and clouded over the color of curdled milk. _

_ “The bitch returns,” she heard his voice as it echoed through the glass gardens, and as he moved towards her, Sansa watched his naked feet leave bloody footprints on the garden floor. _

_ “Look what you’ve done” He purred. “Wolf bitch. Turned my own hounds against me. You will bleed for this. You will bleed.” _

_ “No, bastard,” her voice sounded strong, but the fear gnawed at the pit of her stomach. _

_ “You got what you deserved.” She snarled back. _

_ He smiled. His mouth widened, his teeth shimmering red, and coated with a thin glaze of blood and saliva. His teeth were sharp, almost like fangs. He moved closer to her. _

_ “You smell the bitch. The bitch smells you.” He whispered. “The hunter becomes the hunted.” The last words were accompanied by a laugh. Sansa walked away from him slowly. She faced him, never turning her back to him. She paced resolutely and silently backwards. As the air hit her back, it almost took her breath away. She could feel the cool Northern air cutting through her clothing like icy spikes. The Others were close. _

_ She used every bit of strength in her body to close the doors to the glass gardens. She didn’t want him following her. _

_ On either side of her the walls of the castle stood, with the snow white banners emblazoned with the Stark sigil overhead flapping in the wind. Daenerys was flying overhead on Drogon’s back. Her silver hair whipping in the breeze. She could see Jon riding on Rhaegal’s back, his fur cloak billowing behind him. As she walked through the courtyards, she clutched her cloaks tightly around her body. Her mouth felt dry. Her tongue felt thick and heavy. _

“Down to the crypts!” She heard yelling. _ Whose voice is that? _ She thought. She picked up her pace. Her feet carried her deeper and deeper through the crowd, and finally down the twisting stairway and into the darkness of the crypts below. She watched the flickering shadows on the walls, and listened as her footfalls rang off the stones and echoed into the crypts below. She passed the likenesses of her ancestors, the ancient Lords of Winterfell. They watched her as she passed along the corridor. The carved effigies were faces she knew as she entered the crypt. Her Lord Father stood over her, solemnly, his likeness carved into stone. His grey eyes stared out at her blind and sightless and yet she felt them on her, watching her as she descended deeper into the crypt. As she plunged deeper into darkness, there were faces that she did not know, ones she’d only heard of in stories. They flanked either side of the crypt with huge carved direwolves at their feet. Great big iron longswords were laid across the laps of the Lords of Winterfell, and their spirits were now, she hoped, watching over her in this place. On either side of her she saw her people. They were huddled together for warmth and protection. In the corner, near a brazier, Tyrion sat nursing a bottle of wine. He was dressed in a black woven jerkin embroidered with gold thread. The gold of the thread seemed to shimmer in the fire light. A baby wailed in the background. Inside, she felt like doing the same. Wailing. She remembered wailing. 

“_Leave her face, I like her pretty _ .” The voice echoed from above. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the cruel smirk on his pale face, a face she had once thought handsome. The people of the court had silently watched, as their rightful King ordered his men to whip her. “_The King can do as he likes _.” She remembered. The North always remembers. 

As she approached where Lord Tyrion sat, she noticed how tired he looked, and how small. He looked as small as she felt. He looked as if he was ready to die.

“My Lord,” she said, and he looked up at her, his eyes wet and tired. She wanted to reach out and touch his face. It was a strange impulse. But he looked like a wounded bird. _ A little bird. Is this what Cersei saw when she looked at her? _ She reached out her hand, and caressed the curls that framed his face. As he looked up at her, his mouth formed the words, _ “I’m sorry.” _

_ She caressed his face with her right hand. His beard felt rough and thick against her fingertips. He reached out and clasped her hand in both of his. His thumb circling her palm rhythmically, as if he were memorizing the feel of it. He brought her hand to his lips, which felt as soft as a flower petal in comparison to the rough beard, and he kissed her hand, gently. So gently it was as if she felt that she had imagined it. As his lips grazed her flesh, she began to smell smoke. _

The crypts were burning. Everything was burning.

_ The crypts dissolved around them, and they were outside the walls of Winterfell now. He was burning. Sansa watched as Tyrion tore the Hand of the Queen pin from the breast of his jerkin, and tossed it at the feet of the Targaryen Queen. Daenerys had tears in her eyes as she whispered softly into the night air “Dracarys.” _

_ A huge gout of orange flame swelled from the mouth of the huge black dragon. In a moment Tyrion was gone. Where he had stood, there lay only a pile of bone and ash. The Hand of the Queen pin melted into the stone behind him. _

_ He had looked into Sansa’s face as he turned, and it felt like something stabbed her in her chest. Her heart cried out for him. Her heart--her mind--her soul--her body. He looked so frail. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to throw herself to the ground at his feet. She blamed herself. He was doing the noble thing, and she had brought him to this place. She had confided in him, and it had cost him his life. As he faced his death, he stood tall. His spine straight. His face resolute. As Drogon opened his mouth, and Daenerys’ lips formed the word of condemnation, he mouthed towards her “I’m sorry.” He had nothing to be sorry for. She was sorry. As sorry as she was, she willed herself to look the young queen squarely in her amethyst eyes, and face her own fate when the time came. _

_ She was surrounded on all sides by people who viewed her as an enemy, and a traitor. The Lioness of Lannister would probably say, "Blood will out, once a traitor, always a traitor." Cersei was probably smiling down on this whole scene. Daenerys towered over her on Drogon’s back as they stood outside the gates of Winterfell. The ground was blanketed in snow. The snow crunched hard beneath her feet as she walked towards the spot where she would die. The Dothraki soldiers eyed her contemptuously, speaking in their rough, guttural tongue. Even as Daenerys droned on about betrayal, the words washed over her like raindrops as she remembered Tyrion’s eyes. She remembered his face. She was the one who had failed. She said prayers to the Gods. All of them. She closed her eyes, and felt the flames consume her, and as the pain subsided and the numbness took over she felt a wind blow from the Godswood. _

_ Fire engulfed everything. She could see it curling around her--enveloping her. She could even taste ashes in her mouth. The great, black dragon loomed above her. She was burning. She was dying. And then--she wasn’t. _

_ She saw herself flying. She could see the moon, as red as blood. She was flying over the grey stone walls of Winterfell. Below her there was a labyrinth of towers and courtyards,and sprawling tunnels and in the center a great monstrous tree towered over the Godswood and it seemed to be glowing. She was surrounded in warmth. _

Sansa woke to find herself surrounded in furs. She was laying in a soft featherbed. The furs were soft and warm against her skin. She was in her chambers at King’s Landing. There was an ache in her abdomen. Her bedclothes felt warm and wet. 


	15. Against You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion arrives in King's Landing. Sansa receives news.

# Chapter 15: Against You

_ "Once you’ve accepted your flaws, no one can use them against you." _

— [ George R.R. Martin ](https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/346732.George_R_R_Martin) ( [ A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1) ](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13496.A_Game_of_Thrones))

Tyrion

The ground had been soft, covered with a blanket of dead leaves for most of the journey and Tyrion’s legs and calves were splattered with mud. As the horses sloshed through the mud and spent leaves and towards the inn at the crossroads, only then did Tyrion feel himself relax. Wet, tired and covered in mud, Tyrion had been propelled forward by what he hoped to find at the inn, a warm bath, a flagon of ale, and a tavern wench to warm his bed. It had been a welcomed respite to stop, rest by a warm fire, and eat real food. It had been a long three weeks on the road, and it hadn’t been an easy journey. It had taken them ten days to cross the Neck. The air had been endlessly wet and damp. Every so often they would have to stop and make camp. Thankfully the men with him were better hunters than he. They roasted rabbits on the campfire at night and traded stories of women, and war. For Tyrion’s part, mostly women--and he had plenty to tell. They had been set upon by robbers not once but twice. He was glad that he had taken four men, and not the two that he had at first thought sufficient. The lady of Winterfell had insisted that he take more men, and after their run-ins with potential thieves, he was glad that he had taken her up on the offer. Ser Jeran Crakehall had to slit a man’s throat at Deepwood Motte. Two dirty men, dressed in rags had set themselves upon them in the middle of the night as they slept at camp. When the fierce knight rose to the challenge, one of the men ran, the other--was not so lucky. 

The Inn at the Crossroads was three stories tall with turrets and chimneys of white stone that somehow reminded Tyrion of the snow covered towers of Winterfell, although on a much smaller scale. The men, Ser Elrin Marbrand, and Ser Jeran Crakehall, loyal to House Lannister; and Jacks and Shadd, two men of Winterfell, acquired provisions for the next leg of their journey. They would need new mounts to take them the rest of the way to King’s Landing. Tyrion had been able to save back enough gold for their room, board and provisions. He took a room on the top floor of the inn. As soon as he had settled with the innkeep, Masha, he took a hot bath, changed into fresh clothes, and made what he could of his hair, which had grown a lot over the past few weeks. He dressed himself in a leather doublet of Lannister crimson decorated with ornate gold embroidery and tidied his hair. 

The common room of the inn was filled with travellers, all of whom were engaged in various lively conversations in their different groups. The men who accompanied him sat at a long, heavy, wooden table not far from the hearth, and he made his way over to them. The drafty room had a huge inviting hearth at the far corner. Tyrion sat down with his men, and beckoned the serving girl over. She was small, frail and thin, and looked to be no more than a mere child. There weren’t any other promising prospects to warm his bed. As she stood next to their table she smelled like ale and his mouth began to water. It had been a while since he’d had a drink. The girl, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, tucked the wooden tray that she carried underneath her right arm, and sidled up next to him, leaning slightly against the table on her left elbow.

“M’lord?” She smiled at him. 

“I’ll have one of those roast chickens, and a flagon of your best ale,” he said, pointing at the roasted chickens that were rotating on metal skewers above the cooking fire. 

“Yes, m’lord,” she said. And before he could say more, she hurried off. 

He warmed himself by the fire, and drank two large flagons of ale, dark and bitter. The ale was comforting, and warmed him from the inside as the fire cast an orange hue on the faces of his fellow companions. Their faces wore the same weariness that he felt.

Soon, the serving girl came back, and with a loud thump, she set a metal platter down on the table behind him. The chicken was golden brown and dotted with fragrant herbs, and it sat in a pool of its own juices. The girl also sat down a sturdy carved wooden bowl filled with hot and crusty bread. He tore off a chunk of the crusty bread hungrily and dipped it into the spent juices of the chicken that glistened and shimmered on the metal platter. The drippings were dotted with herbs. When the savory taste of the bread and the juice from that plump roasted chicken touched his tongue, he felt as if he was human again. It had been so long since he had a proper meal. He ate the whole chicken and all of the bread. He washed it down with two flagons of tart red wine, and two more flagons of dark ale. Once he was full and satisfied, he stumbled up the narrow wooden stairs, and fell into the feather bed with a plop. Sleep greeted him like an old friend. 

***

They made an early start of it upon waking. As the night receded completely, they rode miles into misty distance, and the mist made Tyrion think of magic. The ground was uneven, muddy and soft. They approached the kingsroad, and there were bits of broken stone along the road, making it a bumpy ride. He struggled to see beyond the sheets of rain as they had set out during the pre-dawn hours and off towards the Kingsroad to try and make the most of the day's travel. When dawn broke, down came the rain. It was relentless. As they set off towards King’s Landing, and onto the kingsroad once again, the sheets of rain also obscured the road. Their horses' hooves sunk slightly into the muddied road and as Tyrion surveyed the surrounding fields they were still covered in a grey mist that brought a general sense of malaise to his small group of travellers. Tyrion hated riding, and he knew that he would be sore and tired by the time that they stopped for the night. He and his four companions had set out along the kingsroad at an even pace so they made good time. His horse galloped along and the small party rode against the wind. 

When they finally reached the gates of that great walled city, Tyrion was once again soaked through and wet to the bone. His clothes stuck uncomfortably to his flesh, and the wind that had chilled him so thoroughly made him feel that he might never be warm again. 

It was hard to believe that the Children of the Forest weren’t in these hills and valleys any longer. It felt like a million eyes were watching them as they made their way towards the seat of Westeros. Tyrion could just make out the outlines of the small collection of gray stone cottages that dotted the fields and hills that stood between the Riverlands and Kings Landing. The expanse of rolling fields and wild, green land seemed endless between the crossroads and the sprawling city of King’s Landing. Eventually the surrounding land became more populated, and the fields and farmland did end, and Tyrion looked up to see the majestic city gates beckoning them. 

As they approached the large stone gates, Tyrion’s eyes traced the carvings in the heavy stone walls. They were decorated with dragons with their wings outstretched, and mouths agape in fury. Tyrion saw the towers of The Red Keep atop Aegon’s High Hill in the distance. The gold cloaks stood at the gates, and several men would accompany them through the throngs of commoners and towards the castle. The air was heavy and hot in the city. It smelled of filth and decay. This was where power lived, and Tyrion would now be a part of it. As the guard led them up towards the high hill, he steadied himself astride his horse and the crowds of people in the streets parted for them. He could hear the whispers and see the eyes of the small folks surveying him. Children stared at him, mercilessly as if he were a spectacle. He could hear their whispers. The whispers of “_ the halfman,” and “the imp,” _could be seen on the lips of the adults and the children alike. The city was a sprawling mass of people and noise, and they made their way through the winding road and into the castle gates.

Sansa

Sansa sprang from bed. She searched the bedcovers and the feather mattress for tell tale signs of blood. Thankfully, the wetness that she felt between her legs had been mostly trapped there. She might be able to hide this. _ Joffrey cannot know. _ The panic quickened her heartbeat. _ Cersei cannot know. _ She frantically searched the bedclothes for any tell tale signs of blood leaking through. It had not. 

In the corner of her bedchamber, near the chair where she sat to do her sewing, she saw a basket filled with fabric for her embroidery. She grabbed some spare fabric that she had set aside for her embroidery practice and folded it over onto itself and into a strip a few inches wide. She securely placed the bundled fabric in between her legs and close up against her body. She squeezed her thighs together to hold the folded fabric in place. She examined herself in the mirror from all angles. The nightdress that she wore had a small pinprick sized spot of blood on it. She wanted to toss it into the fire. _ Fire purifies. _ She felt as if the scent of blood clung to her. ‘_The blood will tell,’ _Sansa repeated Cersei’s words in her head. 

Joffrey had threatened to get a child on her as soon as they were wed. _ As soon as they were wed. She had to_ get out of King’s Landing. Sansa remembered the first conversation that she had with the Queen after her flowering. She had sat there, stupidly, as the queen snidely remarked that “flowering” hadn’t made her any brighter. She had called love a “s_weet poison_.” It was a sweet poison that Sansa would never know. 

Sansa took a few more scraps of fabric from her basket, and placed them beneath her on the bed. She called for her bedmaids, and asked them to fetch her father. _ They were running out of time. _

Sansa climbed back onto her bed. She placed some extra cloth beneath her. Carefully she conceiled the embroidery cloths beneath where she sat on the edge of the featherbed, and waited for her Lord father. She drew the covers up close to her body, as if to envelop herself, or hide. '_If only I could hide from the gods,' _she thought. She almost wanted to laugh. 

When her father appeared at the door, he entered quietly and closed it behind him. Sansa noticed that he looked dour and sullen as he entered her bedchamber. 

“Sansa, sweet one,” he said, studying her face, 

All awkwardness went from her mind, as she pleaded for her father to help her hide this. _She could not go on with this marriage_. “I need someone trusted to come here and attend me father. I have---flowered.” 

His face dropped. “The betrothal--” 

“Yes,...I mean to hide it. No one can know.” 

“So now you are truly a woman grown?”

“To _wed and to bed_. Joffrey has made that much clear to me.”

Her father’s mouth stretched into a tight line. “Gods...” He sighed, slumping down into the chair near the hearth. 

“Come closer.” She beckoned him forward. 

In her quietest voice, she whispered, “_I need a handmaiden. I need a bath drawn. Is there someone loyal who can attend me? Someone from Winterfell? I must hide this for as long as I can. I will be absent from court today. Tell them I’ve eaten something that has made me ill. _”

“I will ask that Septa Mordane attend to you. She loves you like her own blood,” he said.

The sadness and defeat in her father’s eyes almost brought tears to hers. 

“Of course. But, Sansa,” he sighed, “the King is not well. I’ve been watching all that he eats and drinks. Still he gets weaker by the day. He’s asked me to act as regent, until Joffrey comes of age.” 

Sansa’s stomach roiled, and deep within her womb she could feel a twinge of pain. 

“Father---” She reached out to touch his hand. “Trust no one.” 

* * *

Tyrion

Tyrion found his sister seated at the table in the council chambers. She wore a gown of ivory, and her hair fell in golden ringlets that grazed her shoulders. Around her neck she wore a thick gold chain with a pendant shaped like the head of a lion. The Lion’s open mouth held a ruby the size of a small cherry. She sat at the head of the long table that was littered with scrolls, and stacks of papers. Tyrion flashed his sister a crooked smile.

“Ah, my sweet sister,” he said. 

“_Why are you here_?” She snarled at him in distaste. 

“I’ve been given a seat on the council,” he smiled. “Are you not happy to see me? Your _own_ flesh and blood?”

“But why are _you_ here? Who has asked for _you_?” She tapped her fingers against the table with each word. 

“Lord Stark, the Hand of the King. In Petyr Baelish’s...absence. Someone must make sure the gold still flows around here.”

“What does he have to gain from inviting you here? Why not a member of his own household?” She leaned back against the high backed wooden chair. Her mouth still tight.

“Maybe my sweet niece, Myrcella, has given him some inspiration. She does love me so...unlike some others.” 

Cersei’s green eyes assessed him coldly, and without a hint of even the slightest affection. 

“Their betrothal is going well then?” There was not a hint of merriment in her voice.

“Oh yes, they are quite in love. I’ve seen them. I took shelter at Winterfell, on my way back from Castle Black. Lady Catelyn was quite hospitable. ”

“Yes.” Tyrion could sense the annoyance rising in his sister’s voice. 

“I shall bring honor to our house.” He said with a bow.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she scoffed. 

“How I have missed you, sweet sister.” He said, _ and it was only three-fourths a lie _. 

***

When it reached evening, Tyrion became restless. He walked the drafty hallways of the keep, a candle in hand. There were not many people stirring at this time of night. That made it the best time for reading. Tyrion climbed the stairs to the castle library. The interior of the library was spacious. The shelves towered above him. He walked through the rows, looking at the various manuscripts that lined the heavy wooden shelves. There were sturdy wooden tables, outfitted with oil lamps, some of them were still littered with parchment and quills. For comfortable reading, the library was outfitted with at least ten good sized windows that let in the sunlight during the day. The desks were far enough from each other as to give an illusion of solitude. Tyrion had a mind to do a bit of reading about the History of the Rhoynish Wars, or the Conquest of Dorne, or maybe dragons. Tyrion had always dreamt of dragons. When he was a boy, he had wanted a dragon of his own. He didn’t dream of dragons as much anymore--until recently. They say that magic went out of the world the day that the last dragon died _ They say. _But lately, there seemed to be magic in the air, and Tyrion couldn’t stop having strange dreams of dragon fire. 

When he slept within the walls of Winterfell he was plagued by the strangest dreams. Dreams of talking trees. Dreams of a beautiful maiden with red hair and sad eyes Dreams of a silver haired beauty with amethyst eyes and riding a beast made of fire. _Fire made flesh. He was dreaming of dragons again. _Sometimes he dreams of three full grown dragons. Sometimes he dreams of dying. The night before his journey he had awoken soaked in sweat. A servant had come rushing to his door, inquiring after his well being. He had been screaming in his sleep. 

He had been in the Red Keep for two days. He was to meet with Lord Stark in the morning to discuss his duties on the small council. Tonight, though, he was restless. He wasn’t ready for sleep, or more strange dreams. 

He walked through the rows of books, listening to the sound of his own footfalls against the rushes. 

He was so preoccupied by his thoughts of dragon fire that he didn’t immediately see the candlelight coming from behind one of the rows of books.

“Who’s there?” He spake into the darkness. 

He saw a shadow cast against the stone wall by the orange glow of candlelight, and it had the shape of a woman. 

***

Sansa

Sansa unrolled the parchment and read it. After reading the scroll from her mother, she threw it into the fire. She watched as the fire devoured it. _ How she longed for home. _ _ Robb was to wed Myrcella. _ The Queen had tried to convince her ailing husband to have the wedding in the Sept of Baelor. Even sick and weak, the King had refused. Joffrey was still under control while his father breathed. And as long as Myrcella was under her own mother's protection, _and safe in Winterfell_, Sansa had a small hope. As long as Myrcella _stayed in Winterfell_, Sansa was safe and alive and Cersei was at bay. Her Lord father had been given leave to travel to Winterfell for the wedding. He was to leave some of his household guard to protect her and Arya until he returned. 

Septa Mordane had been a gift from the gods. She helped Sansa hide the evidence of her flowering. She made excuses for Sansa’s absence from court as she kept to her chambers as much as possible. _ The Septa did love her _. She was the only adult woman in King’s Landing that she trusted to keep this confidence. But Sansa worried that the deception was beginning to wear on the Septa’s nerves. Sansa could feel the nervous energy as the Septa's hands trembled like leaves while she helped Sansa to secure her braids atop her head and pin them into a high bun. Sansa encouraged her father to take the opportunity while at Winterfell to send letters without being under the Spider’s watchful eyes, and to find some chambermaids loyal to Winterfell--_loyal to her_, and loyal to her house. 

She wore the Lannister pendant that Joffrey had given to her. She dabbed fragrant oil between her thighs and behind her knees. She slipped into her undergarments before her chambermaids came in. They helped Sansa into a gown of green damask. She anointed her body with the fragrant oil. She placed small dabs of oil on her neck, behind her ears, and at the creases of her elbows. It smelled of fresh lemons and reminded her of summer. 

As Sansa walked the gardens during the day, she watched the red comet streak across the sky. It looked like blood. _ The dragons were growing stronger. _ She needed to make peace with Daenerys Targaryen, and make her an ally of the North, _only she had no idea where she was_. _ The spider knows. _But Lord Varys had been a traitor to her father, and party to her father’s execution in her past life. 

When she retired to bed, her dreams were vivid. She dreamt of fire. She felt herself consumed by it. She dreamt of dragons, full grown dragons, and the Dragon Queen. She dreamt of other things too, which were less clear--_ soft words spoken in the darkness of a crypt_. Soft, strong hands touching her own. She was troubled as well by the strange gnawing feeling at the center of her stomach that threatened to consume her as she felt soft lips caress the flesh of her ungloved hand. After a fitful few hours, she rose from her bed, put on a cloak and started to roam the castle. The castle was quiet at night, and she wanted something--anything to quiet her mind.

Cersei had given her the freedom to roam the castle, and tonight she was glad of it. She walked along the peaceful corridors and climbed the stone stairs into the library. Truthfully, she had never been in this part of the castle before. In her past life, she hadn’t been much in the mood for reading when last she had been in the Red Keep. The library in the castle made the library at Winterfell look like a child’s play thing. There were thousands of books, and maps all arranged on high shelves. Sansa stood behind a tall shelf, looking over the titles on it. After a moment, she heard footsteps. 

She stepped out from behind the tall shelf to see a face that she had only lately seen in her dreams. 

“My Lord,” she curtsied.

He looked up at her, bemused. “I’m not the only one having trouble sleeping,” he smiled a crooked smile at her. There was something in that smile that she had not seen when he was at Winterfell. _Maybe it was mischief._ She wasn’t sure. 

“Are you ready for the wedding?” He asked.

Her mind went back to Joffrey. _ She wasn’t. _“Of Robb and Myrcella?” She asked, innocently. 

His green eyes smiled at her. “Have you had much time to write to Winterfell?” He said.

“Yes, I often write to my Lady mother. My father is travelling there for the wedding.” She said. 

This seemed to take him aback. He walked over to the tall backed chair that sat at one of the huge library desks, and climbed onto it with some effort. 

She followed him, pulling the other heavy wooden chair and turning it to face him. 

“How was your journey my Lord?” 

“Wet.” He smiled across at her. 

“I have had the oddest dreams of late.” She confessed.

“Perhaps we can both obtain some dreamwine from the Maester.” He smiled.

“Perhaps,” she said, letting the last of the word linger on her lips. “I’ve dreamt of dragon fire. Do you think it means anything?”

His curiosity seemed piqued. “I’ve also dreamt of dragons. What kinds of things have you seen?”

“_I’ve seen you _,” she wanted to say. “I’ve had nightmares of burning. I…” she took a deep breath, “_died_.” 

“I’ve had the same dream,” he said. There was a storm in his green eyes. “I have the most curious feeling that there is something that you are leaving out---Lady Stark.” 

“I’ve also dreamed of my wedding.” She lied.

“Well, that will soon come to pass,” he smiled. “I don’t know which one sounds more terrifying.” His eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

“I’m glad that you made the journey safely,” she said. 

“”Your mother was very hospitable.” 

“I am glad,” She smiled, and rose from the chair, smoothing her skirts. “I’ll leave you to your study of the histories,” she said softly. 

He rose from his chair. 

Instinct told her to hold out her hand. He took it. His fingers felt blunt, and thick as they touched her hand, but his skin felt soft and warm. With a bow and a nod of the head he kissed her outstretched hand. “My Lady,” he said.

She took her leave of him then. She would go back to her bedchamber. She could feel his eyes watching her as she turned on her heel and walked toward the heavy door and out into the darkness of the corridor.

  
Her hand felt warm where his mouth had touched it. ‘ _ What is this?’ _ She thought to herself. _ Am I still a silly little girl? _ She was sure that her face was flushed. _ It was only a kiss on the hand. _ A kiss on the hand. She pondered the meaning of her strange dreams. She pondered the strange feelings in the pit of her stomach, or the pounding of her heart that made her feel like she was keeping a great secret, and she carried these thoughts with her back into the darkness. 


	16. Faithless Creatues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion meets with Ned. Sansa plays a game.

# Chapter 16: Faithless Creatures

_ “Men are such faithless creatures.” —Varys _

**George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI**

** Tyrion **

The air was heavy and thick. Tyrion took ragged breaths as he walked the length of the courtyard towards the Tower of the Hand. The walk was long, and his legs ached by the time that he reached the stairs that led up to the tower itself. With great effort he climbed the winding steps that led into the Hand’s chamber, and he pushed open the heavy wooden door to find Lord Stark sitting there waiting for him. Lord Stark was serious and somber. The Quiet Wolf seemed to survey him from behind the heavy desk, and Tyrion wondered if, like most everyone else in his life, Lord Stark appraised him and found him wanting. It had been two days since Tyrion arrived in the capitol, and he didn’t know what to expect. Ned Stark sat at a table that was piled high with parchments and scrolls. 

“I see you’re expecting me,” Tyrion said, trying to portray some sense of levity. The sweat seeping through his clothing, but he hoped that the Hand didn’t see it. Tyrion surveyed the room as he moved closer to the waiting chair, and took a closer look at the man that sat before him. ‘This city is wearing on him,’ he thought. Ned Stark motioned for Tyrion to sit, and he silently obeyed. 

“You’ve been busy,” Tyrion said, motioning towards the piles of scattered parchment. The Hand smiled half a smile, but his eyes were still red rimmed and tired. Tyrion’s settled back against the chair, curiosity gnawing at him like rat. He returned Lord Eddard’s smile before continuing the conversation. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“You do consider it an honor then?” The Hand said, as a smile spread in earnest across his face. He looked into Tyrion’s eyes, studying him more intently. “I hope that the journey was easy.” He said after a while. 

“As easy as can be expected. We were only set upon by robbers twice,” Tyrion said with a laugh. The journey had been surprisingly easy, considering. 

There was a small round table that sat off to the the right side of the heavy wooden desk. Tyrion saw that it held a silver platter on which there sat two goblets, and a bottle of red wine. Lord Stark saw him looking, and gestured towards it. “Would you like some wine? I’ve had some brought up for you.” He gestured again towards what appeared to be a fine Dornish red.

“You’ve anticipated me.” Tyrion said, as his mind searchred for his next words. “My sweet sister nearly choked when when she saw me here at court.”

“You will be seeing a lot more of her, should you decide to take up the position on offer.”

’You honor me, Lord Stark” He said, trying to portray a lightness in his voice. “There are whispers that Littlefinger has left the capital, I assume you must be in need of a new Master of Coin.”

Ned Stark took a deep breath before taking a large sip of wine. “Lord Baelish has left the capital. Tales of your cleverness have not been overstated.” 

“Clever? You must have me mistaken for another dwarf,” he said with a laugh. 

“How did you find the Wall?”

“My trip North to the Wall was eventful. Maester Aemon advises that it may be the longest winter yet. Lord Commander Mormont is—- more than a little concerned about the coming Winter. They are low on men. I half expected him to convince me to take the black.”

“From the tales I’ve heard of you, a life of celibacy doesn’t sound like something you’d be interested in.”

“He wanted me to talk to the King. I told him that the King was likely to ignore me but—here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“There are less than a thousand men to man the wall. He says that the Watch has become an army of old men and children. They need more men.”

“I’ll do what I can. They can have their pick of the dungeons. We had a deserter—before the King arrived.”

“A deserter?”

“He was mad. He claimed to have seen the white walkers—”

Tyrion felt a chill go through his body. It didn’t seem to be the temperature of the room. Something about the vast nothingness had unsettled him as he looked out over the wall. Maybe there was something to the stories, he thought. “Mormont says there have been tales of strange things beyond the wall. He warned of a coming darkness. He claims that the fisherfolk at Eastwatch have glimpsed white walkers at the shores. 

He expected the Hand to call him crazy, but he seemed to only listen more intently. “White walkers?” He repeated back.

Tyrion pressed on, “If you’d seen and heard what I saw and heard, the look in his eyes—the fear in his voice— he claimed to be plagued by strange dreams.”

“We’ve all had strange dreams—since that bloody comet has been streaking across the sky—”

When Tyrion thought back to his own strange dreams. He could only shake his head in agreement. 

“I’ll send him as many men as I can to shore up the wall. Robert is too weak to disagree. Which brings me back to the reason that I’ve called you here—”

“Yes, the position on the council.”

“ I plan to travel North for the wedding of Robb and Myrcella.” He held a letter in his hand, sealed with the direwolf sigil of House Stark, which he thrust towards Tyrion.

Not knowing what to expect, Tyrion felt his chest tighten as he took the letter, and held it curiously in his hand.

“You will also need these,” Lord Stark said, “You may want to read that one first.”

Tyrion opened the sealed letter and read:

> I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King,do hereby command Lord Tyrion Lannister of House Lannister to serve as Hand of the King in my stead until such time as I return from The North."

He nearly dropped the scroll from his trembling hands ““Why me?”

“You’ve got a head for politics, I’ve heard.” 

“You place a great deal of trust in me, my Lord,” he said. His chest tightened uncomfortably. He did his best to still himself. 

“You have knowledge of many of the people on the council. You should do well here.” Lord Stark replied.

“The other scrolls are only to be opened if one of two things happens. Should anything happen to me in my travels, or, should anything happen to our King in my absence. The Hand of the King should serve as Lord Protector of the realm in the event that the King succumbs to this mystery illness.”

To Tyrion, this illness was no mystery. He suspected that his sister had something to do with it, but he had no proof. “What of my sister?” He asked.

“She, so far, is unaware of much my plans. I suggest it stay that way.” Lord Eddard then took a large gulp of wine, as if to steady himself. 

“I must ask again, although I don’t doubt your judgment. Why me?” Tyrion implored.

“You are of House Lannister, you should be trusted by your family.” He replied.

“My Lord, you are naive to the workings of my family if that is what you believe. My sister--loathes me.” Tyrion said.

“So you refuse?” Lord Stark asked.

“No… I only wonder, why? Why me? You barely know me. My own father has not made me Lord protector of anything other than the sewers of Casterly Rock.”

“Aye, so you should be eager to prove yourself, and to bring honor to your house.” Eddard Stark smiled.

“ Should you choose to go back to Casterly Rock and tend to the sewers, I shall have to make other arrangements. It would be a pity to have brought you all this way for nothing.”

“I’ll do it,” Tyrion said. “But you may be disappointed. My nephew will likely be eager to assume the throne. Also…he hates me. ” 

“Temper him.”

“Ha!” Tyrion took a sip of wine. “My head will end up on a spike.”

“Who’s to say it won’t if you refuse me?” 

“Why not my brother? He’s already here in the capitol.” At the mention of his brother the Hand’s mouth tightened, but his expression betrayed little else.

“He serves as a member of the Kingsguard. He already has his responsibilities. ”

“My Lord Father, is…aware of this.”

“Need he be?”

“I suppose he will be pleased. Anything to secure the family legacy.”

Lord Stark nodded. “Good. I’ve had this made up for you.” He tossed a silver Hand of the King pin towards him. “You need not wear it until I leave the city. Keep it close. When you present the scroll, be sure that there are others there to witness it. Your sister—should not have it in her hands.”

Tyrion nodded. “My duty is to the realm..”

“Aye, it is. I trust that you will remember that. I have another thing to ask of you.”

“If it is within my power,” Tyrion said. 

“I need you to keep a close watch on my daughters, while I am away from the city.” 

Tyrion nodded. “Your wife has asked me to do the same. Is there something that I am not privy to?”

“Sansa, she’s a sweet girl. Some mistake her sweetness for stupidity. Arya is willful. She needs a watchful eye.”

“I’ve always had a soft spot for little things.” He replied.

“If there is nothing else, I have some other matters to attend to.” Lord Stark said, in a stern voice. Apparently the meeting was over.

Tyrion climbed down from the chair, and made his way back to his chambers. He clutched the two scrolls tightly in his hand. He had only imagined himself coming to fill the position of Master of Coin. His sister would not be pleased. His Father might be. He would do his best. That could be counted on. 

***

** Sansa **

Sansa sat alone in the courtyard on a bench overlooking the ocean. She watched as the ships came in and out. She remembered the game that she used to play. She longed for that innocence. Now she wished that she could board one of those ships. The last time that she boarded a ship it was under false pretense. Littlefinger had spirited her away to the Eyrie. As she sat and watched the people milling about in the courtyard, she knew in her heart that they were innocent too. They had no idea of the danger that awaited them and that was creeping towards them slowly and deliberately from the North. They had no idea that if they did nothing, and if they went about their lives as they were doing now being blissfully unaware, everyone that they have ever known would soon be dead. 

“Lady Sansa,” a familiar voice came from behind her.

“My Lord.” She bowed. Lord Tyrion was standing behind her. He was dressed handsomely in a gold doublet. 

“You look solemn. Am I interrupting?”

“No, I’m just watching the ships come in.”

“Not thinking wistfully about your betrothed?” He teased.

“That doesn’t sound very solemn my Lord.”

“I’ve met your betrothed,” he said with a smile.

“I’m playing a little game.”

“What kind of game?”

“I like to make up a story about where the ships come from, and what kind of people might be on them.”

Tyrion pointed to a handsome ship that approached the port. ”What about that one?”

“That ship is coming from Braavos. They are merchants coming to the city to sell their wares. The ship is filled with rich purple dyed fabrics to be sold at market.”

“How does this game work exactly?”

“You just make up a story.”

“Does it have to be about the ships?”

“Do you have another story?”

“Possibly.”

Sansa eyed him skeptically. “Possibly?”

“You frequent the library. What is your favorite song?”

“I’ve always been partial to Florian and Jonquil.”

“Ah, the great fool and great knight. You enjoy tales of Knights?”

“I did.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

“I know that story well.” 

“I have outgrown it.”

He raised an eyebrow at this. “What kinds of stories do you prefer now?”

“Do you know the story of the Long Night?”

“Do you believe such things?”

“Old Nan used to tell us stories. Darkness fell across the world. Winter came and lasted generations. Men were born, lived and died never knowing summer. I also remember something about giant ice spiders.”

“What about the snarks and grumkins?”

““Do you think the First Men built a wall that tall to keep out grumkins and snarks?” Sansa said.

“And now I see why you look solemn. The grumkins have gotten to you.”

“You went to the top of the wall, did you see any grumkins?”

“No—but the men of the Watch were just as superstitious as you are and ten times as solemn.”

“Winter is coming.”

“The words of your house.”

“More than that. A truth.”

“Be that as it may. Winter has come and gone before.”

“I’ve heard tell this may be the longest winter in living memory.”

“I’ve heard the same.

“But you didn’t think that simply “grumkins and snarks?”

“Are you mocking me Lady Stark?”

Sansa smiled. “No, only, I was thinking that a grumkin or snark might come in handy.”

“How so?”

“Old Nan used to say that the grumkins could make wishes come true.”

“Do you have a wish that you need to come true?” He said.

“A few.”

***

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” the words echoed in Sansa’s head. She had been here before. Sansa entered the airy bedchamber that sat atop the Tower of the Hand. She was a married woman. A woman—grown. If not grown, flowered. To bed and to wed. Joffrey’s words echoed in her head. The ghost of his fingers wrapped around her arm, thrusting her towards the altar were real enough to be felt still. The chambers had been decorated for the wedding. There were rose petals strewn across the floor leading her way towards the bed. The bed. The bed watched her expectantly—filling her with dread. The key to the North. Her brother was as good as dead. She was the key. Her maidenhead nothing but a tool in her own destruction. There were fragrant flowers all about the bedchamber. There was wine. All to sweeten the defeat of her family. Wine to dull the pain. Wine to dull the dread. Tyrion offered her a goblet, as he poured his own. He filled goblets for both of them. She held hers gently, stilling herself. He seemed to greedily consume his own. Sansa watched him keenly. He bid her to call him by his name. Tyrion. His name felt clumsy on her lips. He looked as if he was afraid of her. Ramsay had not looked afraid. He had looked at her as if she were a piece of meat. His eyes carved her up into tiny pieces and then his hands and his body did the rest. She felt control here. She felt control but yet she went through the motions. She watched as her Lord husband drunkenly stumbled about their bedchamber. She began to undress. She didn’t need another sip of wine. She wanted this. This will change everything. ‘I cannot be sold off like a brood mare again,’ she thought. She began to unlace her dress. 

As she undressed, he turned away, shyly. He is afraid. She thought. But he wants me. I know he wants me. Do I want him to want me? Sansa pondered. She wasn’t sure. But there was a strange stirring in her flesh and she wanted to quiet it. It was as if there was something else inside her clawing to get out. A wolf. The wolf doesn’t concern herself with the lamb, she smiled to herself silently. The wolf in her propelled her forward. She walked over to where Tyrion stood, clutching a golden goblet. He looked at her as if entranced. His eyes watched her hungrily as she crossed the room. Now who is the lamb, she mused. She reached out and caressed his face, gently. He looked at her--curious and quiet as if she were a doe, who might run away if he moved. She ran her thumb along the length of his jaw, and traced his lower lip with her thumb before coming to rest it on his chin. He stood there still, rooted to the spot. What am I to do? She thought, and then she knelt down. As she leaned in to kiss him the thought struck her that his mouth probably tasted like wine. His lips were lightly reddened from the wine. She could almost taste it—taste them—on her own. As her face moved closer to his, the light of the candles seemed brighter behind him. He was slipping further from her. The room was slipping further away. The light seemed brighter and brighter behind him. The light enveloped her body. The light was warm. It hurt her eyes. She rubbed them trying to ease the discomfort, but the light got brighter and brighter. It was as if the sun was right above her and inside the room. 

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the sun streamed in through her window. She turned over in bed. Dreamwine. I must talk to the Maester.


End file.
